In musing again about my tendency to be a tortured writer, I came upon a bit of an epiphany-esque question. Do I have a love for writing or a love for story? Maybe the written word is simply the most accessible mode of expression. Drawn by the need to tell stories I simply pick up whatever avenue is closest at hand... pen and paper (known in these modern days as the computer).

Tortured. Annoyed. I write because my head is filled with fantastical images, complex stories, and heart wrenching plots but the words on the page frustrate me. Did I say it right? Will people understand what's going on? Will they see it like I see it? These questions make me incredibly detailed, nit picky and perfectionist. Overwhelmed by how long the process takes, I grow bored of my own inventions and toss them aside.

But the stories keep coming. They clutter my mind. With no avenue of written expression, and with verbal expression definitely not an option (I can't tell you how often I've been teased about my creative, fantastical story tendencies) the stories wither. I admit, I've encouraged this withering. Because I'm tortured by it, of course. It's so frustrating to not be able to express a story that I have come to discover that I'd rather not have a story to begin with.

But maybe my problem isn't the story, it's the avenue. Maybe writing isn't the best thing for me. Then, pray tell, what is?