I used to think that I wrote only because I needed to. It was selfish, but that was all right. I made my peace with it. It served only my needs, my purposes. And besides, everyone else was doing it, so why not me? Right?
I’m not sure anymore. I understand differently today. I understand this when I read the words other people have written. When I read, and I feel the words move and kick inside me as though a new life were coming. I remember how it feels to read Neruda, or Rilke; or when I read Jeffrey McDaniel and Naomi Shihab Nye and David Whyte and Rumi. And I understand this: that although we may create beauty because we need to, our need is born of a greater, deeper calling that we hear. A need that lives outside of us.
What we hear is the almost silent consciousness of all humanity; of all mankind, and its primal need for love and beauty to permeate all life. We seek art. We seek pulchritude. And so we create. We write and sing and paint and sculpt and make and compose and talk and dance. We do this because we must. For ourselves and them.
No creator works alone.