Why do I blog?

This is a question that everyone with an online presence (replace “blog” with whatever form of social media you use) should probably ask themselves. And today, I did. Do I blog for attention? For those little notifications that someone “liked” a post or commented on one? Do I get tied up in watching the stats of how many visitors I’ve had per day, and how many posts each visitor has viewed?

Often, the answer is yes. Yes, I do these things, I admit it. But the little thrills of pleasure when someone enjoys a piece or takes the time to read multiple stories I’ve posted are the hot fudge on top of the reason I blog. 

 I blog because I write. Because I’ll be driving and an idea will pop into my head and I will be forced to cling to that spark of inspiration by its thrashing tail until I can tap out my stream of consciousness into my phone at a red light. I drip water all over my computer keyboard after a shower because I am too impatient to dry my fingers off, afraid that the scene or line of dialogue in my head will disappear if I wait an instant. 

I blog because I write, and because I write, I want to be read. Of course, if no one ever read the words I put onto paper, I would write anyway. But just as no man is an island, no writer can be, either. Perhaps there are people who can only write for themselves; certainly, there are things I have written that will never see eyes other than my own (thank goodness). But, why create if no one ever sees the creation? What if Michaelangelo had kept the David in a closet? Or painted the work that graces the Sistine Chapel in his garage? Please don’t think I’m suffering from hubris and comparing myself to Michaelangelo. 

I think anyone who creates—whether it is fiction, non-fiction, art, film, architecture—anyone who takes something that existed only in the cloudy grey cerebral cortex and brings it to life, makes it concrete, does so not just for themselves. Hiding your work from potentially critical eyes, you will be forever blind to both its brilliance and its flaws. If you never expose your creation to the light of day, you will never know whether it will be Frankenstein’s monster or the Mona Lisa. 

And so, while I may overload Twitter, Instagram, etc. etc. etc. with the mundane and the banal, I try to keep that out of this space. I avoid posting mediocre work just to get hits and make my stats go up, I (try to) avoid rambling posts about nothing, and I look forward to feedback from readers and comment-ers. After all, with all the worlds created in our heads, it is good to invite others into those worlds every once in a while if only so that they can pull us out. 

Genesis of a Story

Fingers fly across the keys, bringing to life dark, dripping forests and the sultry sea breezes of far off dreams.

Darkness falls on the fingers, but in that other world the sun blazes to life, gilding faces and eyelashes and snowcapped hills with honey-gold light.

The sounds of passing cars fade into the darkness, replaced by the whistling wind through the naked, rattling trees and the whinny of velvet-nosed horses.

Their breath rises in ghostly wisps of steam, floating away in the wind that blows over mountains, valleys, rivers, oceans.

Clouds roll in superficial swiftness across the sky as characters are born and draw breath and perhaps die on the canvas that is their lives, their world.

The fingers pause. The chest rises and falls.

A battle is fought and won; the earth is stained with blood and the air rings with the eerie cries of the dying.

A baby squalls in the arms of its mother, its ragged mewling cries as herald its entry into the world.

Life is created, life is stolen.

There was day and there was night.

The first Chapter.