Someone asked me recently why I write. After I thought about it, it became increasingly clear: creativity.
I have an overwhelming drive to create. I absolutely love picking an idea out of the thin air and seeing what I can create with it.
If I could be locked away (on a beautiful tropical island) and be fed at varying intervals (thai, curry, and nyonya would be great) then I think I could go on creating for a specific indefinite amount of time. (And I definitely have no idea how specific that time would be.)
My brain is bottlenecked with ideas – novels waiting to be discovered, phrases and words ready to turn into dramatic works. melodies and lyrics ready to become the next Broadway smash.
I used to be drawn to movies and TV shows. Now I’m drawn to white screens and greasy keyboards. I’m drawn to secluded tables by the beach or little back corners of vacant cafes.
I used to drawn to sports. Now I’m drawn to musicals and live shows, theatrical productions and lighting schemes. I’m drawn to set designs and unpredictable movements.
I feel like my brain has graduated. It’s move beyond the rigid confines of stale grammar and cliched dialogues. It’s moved beyond the sitcom drivel and the banality of pop-culture which lives on the surface of society. I’ve graduated from consumption to creation. I’m compelled, coerced, and utterly vanquished to hourly solitude in front of the glowing screen, etching away at a hidden theme inside a partly hidden story.
So I wait for the next hour, the next afternoon, the next day, the next week which will whet my fingers with a stirring of ideas which will lead to entire new palate of other ideas. The building up, the networking, the cognitive hooks bound together by phrases and sentences leading into the great unknown.
That’s why I write. That’s why I have to write. If I don’t write, the buildup inside would be too great to withstand
Creativity is the necessary outlet which keeps me partially sane.
So here’s to creativity!