Today I'll experiment with writing a post without a title and without a clear idea of my subject. I usually know exactly what I am going to write about. Something will have occurred to me during the week, or even overnight: a thought, a movie, a book quote, a news item, a conversation might have fueled my imagination. I'm inspired by my experience of the world around me with which I interact, and by how I process and analyze my experiences.
Sometimes this propensity of mine to be over analytical is annoying, like the book reviewer whose critical eye robs them of the pleasure of the words they are reading. Mostly I accept it as part of who I am, and I use it to my advantage. I am intensely curious and this also is a blessing and a curse. My first question, and the only real question of import is why. Why do I do what I do, and say what I say? And why do others behave as they do? What motivates people?
Being a novelist I have the opportunity to explore the human psyche through fictional worlds. To examine and explore human nature, to push characters around, to drag them down or to lift them up, to force them to confront issues and deal with their demons. All the while, I am thinking about their motivation. I am asking why. I think this is the main reason I love writing.
There is escapism, as there is with reading. There is also the acquisition of knowledge through research, and then there is the actual process itself: putting words together in such a way so as to not only convey your message but to touch your reader. What's not to love about writing. I even like editing and re writing!
Having come to the end, having reached a sufficiency of words, I can now declare this exercise a success. I began with nothing and I made something. The lesson to be learned: neither the beginning or the end of a journey is anywhere near as important as the journey itself.