A response to Chuck Wendig’s most recent Flash Fiction Challenge.
I write for the worst reasons. I’m in misery when I write, and in greater misery when I don’t. I write for others’ admiration, crave the praise and attention, and hate myself for it, a self-aware sinner. I want to write but fear of failure, and so I vomit into text documents and rarely edit my thoughts so I never have to say I did my best. I love my ideas and hate the work needed to make them into stories. I want to write, but really I want to have written. I call myself a writer and yet I don’t write.
Case in point: it would be hilarious if I completed this essay, WHY I WRITE, because I haven’t written a damn thing in over a year.