Limericking around

October is turning out to be a hectic month, with our writers club involved in the CRUSH Arts and Cultural Festival. Check out if you want to find out more about the festival. Our little group gathered in the Central Business District pavillion and offered ourselves to the whims and fancies of the passing public. Well, we actually offered our creative talents, but as writing is hardly a spectator event, we had to at least appear interesting enough to catch the attention of passersby so we could offer them a limerick, a poem, or a short prose piece to suit a special occasion.

To our surprise, we were approached by several people who were “writers in secret” and pleased to see that more like them existed.

It’s a funny game, this writing. Unlike an artist or sculptor or photographer who can display their work for dozens if not hundreds of people to see (and critique) at one time, a writer needs to get his or her work published in order to get feedback on it from “the public”. And unlike a painting, a statue or a photograph, a manuscript can’t be wrapped in colourful paper as a present for granny at Christmas. Well, it could, but it might not be greeted with much enthusiasm. You can always donate an unwanted painting to the Sallies, but only the recycle bin will welcome a rejected manuscript.

Writers write for many reasons, but I know why I do it. Because I HAVE to. The characters won’t leave me alone. The story keeps tumbling around in my head, demanding to be written. The thrill when a story flows from my mind, through my fingers, to the computer screen is unparalleled. I feel more alive, and I enter my created world as though I’m part of it. But when the writing doesn’t flow, when each word feels like it’s been pulled from my brain with pliers, I wonder why I give in to this attraction writing has for me. But deep down I know – it is the urge to create … and I can’t deny it because it is a part of me. Such a big part.

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