Day 6 of Bloganuary asked the question, “Why do you write?”

Why do I write? That’s a good question. Instead of writing something new and original, I will copy and paste portions of an old post titled The Art of Writing, originally written by me and posted to what is now my archive blog – This is Another Archive.

Writing’s an art.  That’s not what I thought of writing until recently.  Writing is also a gift, it is a way for imagination to spread beyond the widest horizon.  It is a way to express yourself like when an artist paint a masterpiece.  Writers can do the same.

…

Writing has recently become my true obsession and talent.  It is as if I’m drawn to it, I cannot stop, it’s so mesmerizing and beautiful.  Tales and stories filled my mind and any second of the day, a plot would suddenly appear prompting me to write.

…Writing has become the air that I breathe.

Every breath I take is a new story waiting to be written.  Every time I closed my eyes, there are bright pictures coming into my mind telling me what to write.  I don’t know how it works or how to control it but it feels as if I am on some kind of drug, I can’t stop it.

Maybe that’s what an artist does.  Maybe an artist will keep painting and painting until the masterpiece of a lifetime is achieved.  I’ve never considered myself to be an artist since I am not good at any types of art but now I see I was wrong.

Art is whatever you make it your own.  It doesn’t take creation or talent, it just takes imagination and commitment.  It doesn’t have to live up to anyone’s standards but yours.  It doesn’t matter if no one likes it, it just matter that you like it and you’re happy.  Isn’t that’s what happiness is all about? Satisfying your own emotions and needs?

The Art of Writing

Day 7 of Bloganuary is asking us to write a short story or poem about rain and since I shared an old post for Day 6, I will share another one. This story is called “Storm”, originally published on June 13, 2014, again on This is Another Archive.

The sky changed unexpectedly, from a beautiful light-blue to white to grey. Cool breeze drifted into the room, cooling down the room from the high temperature. Then the wind began to howl, like a monster waking up from a long sleep. Windows banging and doors slamming, making me jump in fright. Before I knew it, rain was pitter-pattering violently outside the window. In the front yard, rose petals scattered across the lawn. The wind had viciously tore it from its home. Though the rain had stopped now, the wind kept going as if it was calling on another storm. 

Storm