It was a topic reminiscient of the old Grade 7 writing's that he once did
way back when school was fun and free, or at least you had recess to tide
you over. But alas there is no more recess, and the fun of yet more years
of school began to weigh heavily on the author as nearly all enjoyment had
been sucked out of his weekday routine, save the time he was online...Well
until he lost his IRC account that is.
And so, with this attitude of doom and gloomy and wanting to clear cut the
forest Bambi used to play in just to open up yet another 7-11, the youn
writer looked at the topic and sneered. "Why do I write?" He asked,
expecting an answer from a higher power that he wasn't sure exisited, and
if it did it sure seemed to ignore him most of the time. Of course an
answer was not forthcoming, and thus he just slumped down in his chair and
frowned, pondering a question that really did not need to be pondered
really. It was so simple to answer, Just a few words and he could go back
to lurking and back into the mirth that was his life.
Yes, it would be easy to answer, quite easy. After all wasn't he living
the life of excitiment and adventure through his work, fighting evil or
your best friend or both at the same time while posturing in a Giant
Robot. It was an escape, he nodded his head as began to type. I do what I
can never do in my writing, he thought, in my work I can be immortal. But
another frown crossed his brow. He could do that in his thoughts really,
where to avoid the dulldroms he often slipped in to slay an opponent or
ace a test or even get the million dollar check from the lottery. These
where escapes, and they where a hell of a lot easier to do then to sit
down and write a few lines on the carcass of a dead tree. Not that he care
about the tree mind you....
So why did he write, he pondered again growing yet more annoyed with the
topic. Perhaps it was to entertain people, to share his love for his hobby
with others, This was probably the reason he exlamied as he executed his
previous text, condeming it to intellictual hell. The joy of writing was
to share his pleasure, pain, and sadness with the public through their
favorite characters. This had to be the reason he writes, he exclaimed,
why else would I take the time to type things out. But then did anyone
read his work, to take the time to walk down his crafted to streets to the
home where his message remained. He never really knew, since so few people
mentioned of the voyage if the took it. His mail box remained empty,
leaving him wondering why he even bothered to place such thoughts out to
the public.
And so the writer again was in a funk, wondering just why he wasted his
time on writing over the last 2 years. While he did do it for escapism and
for the enjoyment of the readers, he knew full well that wasn't the only
reason. There had to be something more, some defining moment of truth as
to why he sat at a computer terminal, his eye's straining at machine that
eslaved him rather than the other way around. There had to be a simple
truth really, an obvious answer. After all everything in life is obvious,
there are no shades of grey only Black and White, though Blue and Green
will play a part if you have a colour TV.
And then it hit him, his eye's glazed over at the monitor, it's hypnotic
gaze broken to reveal the twisted mesh of wires and tubes it really was.
Quietly he began to type at the keyboard, responding to the question as if
he where not in 7th grade or in the 12th grade, but as if he where in
kindgarten again. And with only a sentence of new text, he hit Ctrl C and
sent the message with his sig file to a list, perhaps to be deleated and
sent to the hell all thoughts and ideas go to some time. It was after all
a simple message, a simple message that read...
'I write because I write....
Ja ne!!
Richard Beaubien
----------------
Matsunaga Mikage "Chemistry Forever!!!"
Fanfic homepage http://www.anime.usacomputers.net/~beaubird'