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“𝘔𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘐 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘤 𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘸-𝘱𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘫𝘰𝘣𝘴.” 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗠𝘆𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗾𝘂𝗲 𝗔𝗻𝗱 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗠𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗲𝘀 𝘉𝘺 𝘈𝘥𝘦𝘭 𝘈𝘣𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘳 Some people tend to put too much mystique into writing. Like some supernatural act where one is possessed of the spirits to ignite a fire within and create out-of-nothing literature that agitates and pierces the soul. There is this lingering image of the writer as some mystical being who, sitting in a corner would travel back in time, or put into his head the mind of another, or steal lightning and thunder from the Gods to be able to easily weave beauty out of words. Please, bring me to that man or that woman, spare us a moment to converse and to commune until I get myself infected with what flu or what cancer virus of a disease that makes him or her write like that, and I can say my life would be complete. Most days I actually find writing to be the least romantic as the low-paying jobs. Something that I must do if the only thing, the only chance I have to put food on my plate is by flexing that delicate fiber in my brain that knows words. There is really nothing extraordinary much less mystical about the act, like crossing the street. You can’t be more pedestrian than that. Of all the things we do we are driven by the basic law of survival. Writing included, maybe even more so. At least if I only speak for myself. Like most people, I turned to writing because I am useless at everything else. Not much of a looker. Never an athlete. Average IQ. Terrible in Math. I couldn’t even cook although some days when my health allows it, I can eat with the appetite of the starving warthogs. In short, it was necessity, rather, the necessity of survival that forced me to teach myself to develop some decent writing skills. Sometimes, I cringe, struggling not to die of envy at imagining someone could just sit in a corner and whip out remarkable pieces of literature without much of an effort. How could he or she do it? I might spend a week arguing with myself if or when should I write, what topic to write about, and finally, to decide to write only to find out after agonizing in the loneliness-emptiness of my ineptitude that I couldn’t write anything at all. It’s such a difficult thing to me sometimes, almost a struggle but even the ant will not last a day on earth without getting something done. And I do know that even with my ant-size irrelevance in the universal order, I am kept alive by the same irresistible compulsion to do something, anything worthwhile. I still know that I just have to do it, to commit to the craft without the romantic allusions, and none of the mystique, but mostly only the mistakes. Not even because it gives my life some purpose and definition whenever I write, an excuse to co-exist and share the present with the trees, the falling rain and the elements, the validation of our faith that life should make sense. I write because there is only so much time. I write as the wheel turns until the last drop of energy dissipates, and night chases the day out of the stratosphere. I do because maybe someday I can’t do it anymore.