The Writer’s Volcano

Being a writer is not a steady stream — it’s a storm system.

Some days, silence. Other days, eruption.

There are moments where inspiration lies dormant, and then suddenly, it rises — unrelenting, urgent — like a volcano that’s been rumbling beneath the surface for weeks. And when it explodes, the words pour out of you as if you’ve been holding your breath under water.

It’s not always poetic.

Sometimes, it’s painful.

Carrying around this weight of emotion, these unspoken thoughts, this aching need to say something — it can feel like dragging around fire with no safe place to put it.

And when we finally do speak, when we finally write — often after years of hesitation, of building courage — we are met not with soft hands or open hearts, but with walls. With resistance. With venom.

People say they want truth — until it makes them uncomfortable.

They want stories — until those stories challenge their own narratives.

And for us writers, who are often sensitive by nature, this lands like a punch to the spirit.

It’s taken years for some of us just to find the strength to publish a single piece. To say, this is what I think, this is what I feel. And in return, we are told: Be quiet. Sit down. Who do you think you are?

Because writing isn’t just about expression — it’s about confrontation.

To write honestly is to challenge. And to challenge is to awaken.

But waking people from comfort comes with backlash — their fight-or-flight kicks in, and often, it’s fight.

We write anyway.

We bleed anyway.

We erupt anyway.

Because this is what writing is.

It is not just art — it is resistance.

It is not just therapy — it is truth-seeking.

It is not always welcome — but it is necessary.

We are not here to be palatable.

We are here to be real.

We write because we carry something heavy that needs to be freed.

We write because maybe, just maybe, our eruption might soften someone else’s ground.

We write in the hope that someone out there is ready — truly ready — to receive what we’ve been aching to say.

Even if most are still asleep.