RAYMOND G . NEWSOME

Writers are always asked, “Why do you write? When did you begin writing?” You can ask a hundred men and women. They will give you the same amount of answers.

My answer is simple. It is the journey through my imagination in words. It’s an opportunity to paint without pictures. I invite others to experience the tales the play out in my head. I’m putting my own form of crazy on paper.

I began writing at a young age. I discovered that I could portray description vivid enough for anyone to see it in their heads. It was natural. It was comfortable, especially for a kid who loved to read and felt awkward around my peers. It was my escape.

So tell me, why do you write?

When I began this new journey back in January, I never dreamed it would continue to grow.  Now it’s October. I have one book self-published on Amazon. I have less than ten chapters left of the first draft for the sequel. I’ve begun two other novels.

I’m trying to figure out if this all determination to create the life I want feeding my motivation to finish what I start, or have I lost my mind to the point the voices have taken control of my mind. I am their meat puppet providing the means to share their stories… No, that’s not right. I can see parts of myself in the characters. I sense metaphors revealing scraps of my life that I’m still trying to accept.

I guess writing has become another form of meditation where I let my thoughts flow with only myself to find. I’m in the labyrinth stumbling through the dark searching for the goal, for the final destination. So I may stumble. I might fall a few times but there is an end. I’ll never give up until I get there.

I’m here in bed writing this blog instead of sleeping. It’s been my curse for over two decades now. I’m too tired to concentrate on my novels (yes, plural), too wired to pass out. Lost in a perpetual world of drowsiness and sarcasm, I am forced to watch loved ones rest.