Reading (Writing) Rainbow (a 15 min. writing challenge)

Haven't written or blogged in awhile, I needed a warm-up so I gave myself a 15 min. writing challenge.
Write for 15 min. Try to ignore your mistakes or over-analyze and just keep going.

After I finished I was reminded of Reading Rainbow. Can't tell you how inspired I was by this as a kid! I remember being glued to that show and riveted by the idea that I can be ANYTHING - in a book.

Born writer. I can’t help it. It just flows from me.

It goes on and on whether or not there is a type pad or keyboard or pencil to listen, it is born indefinitely in the folds of my mind, perpetual creation.
It is not the sound or pentameter, not the measurement, rhythm or balance of words, it is their physicality and meaning.  A constant description of feeling, thoughts, plans, intentions.

Words keep me up. Sometimes words I mean to write, sometimes words that just stream by in a trickle. Thoughts outlined and tamed, as if made physical through the vision of the letters that make them up.

Sometimes they move me to create, sometimes they undermine me.

I say born writer, and I mean it.  Surely from the moment I could express myself on paper I took to it as a fish to water, as a human to the earth. A world unfolded before me and all that passed through my mind could be recorded, shared, remembered.

Drawing never could do it or music despite my adoration for it. Nothing ever expressed what was in me, but words - words quickly became my preferred medium.

I do not claim to be a master, nor do I aspire to be one.

I merely do what I must do. I must write.

Words are my way of wooing my dreams, my careful and gentle descriptions tempt them, and they unfurl before me with eagerness. 

I have read other writer’s blogs and taken note of the pressure they feel.
To write something others will want to read, to market themselves.

As for me, I have a hard time relating.  I mean, sure, I can understand the pressure of critics, the desire to make an impression on readers, to write something that the world might call truly great.

But I write for me. I write because it gives breath to my dreams. I write that I might draw the physical from the illusionary. That I might one day recall all that has been created in my mind by reading. I write so that the story will be told.
That there will be a record of Ronan MacDhughaill’s existence, be it only in my mind. And that Ferran might make his way to Katya and not remain an echo on a scant set of neurons in my brain. That Sulimea can find life, after all he has come so far, from another planet in my mind.

I hope that one day readers will enjoy my larger works, but I am not bound by whether or not they will find them entertaining.

They are, after all, my dreams, worlds of my own creation.  I wrote them not for entertainment’s sake, but that I might capture them as one would capture fireflies. 

I am intrigued by them again and again, and that is why they were captured in the first place.

Everything else is irrelevant.

As a child, I spent a lot of time alone. Have no pity, I enjoyed every second of it. I preferred solitude to company, and still do, because of the treasure trove of imagination in me. I could be anyone doing anything at any time, anywhere, and with the power of writing, I could visit that place again and again and pick up right where I left off.

I do not aspire to change the world with my stories. There are thousands of wonderful storytellers out there.

What I do want to do is encourage everyone to write, or find some means of expressing yourself. You never know what you might discover about yourself.  You may find entire worlds within yourself that you never knew existed, and putting them into words can make them real and accessible to everyone that desires to seek them.

Share yourself.
Write.