I write all the time - I write poetry, I love to write.

Hear the simple yet mighty words of Colin Quinn: “I write all the time — I write poetry, I love to write.” Do not mistake their simplicity for smallness, for within them lies a truth as enduring as the hills: the true writer is not one who waits for inspiration like rain, but one who makes writing a constant companion, as breath to the lungs, as pulse to the heart. To write all the time is to weave words into the fabric of one’s being, until they are not an act but a way of life.

The origin of this truth is ancient. Long before books were bound, before quills touched parchment, storytellers spoke daily, weaving tales into every gathering, every ritual, every meal. They did not wait for the grand moment to create; creation was their constant rhythm. Quinn echoes this tradition, for in his declaration he claims not the identity of one who occasionally writes, but of one who loves writing so deeply that it becomes as natural as living. Such love cannot be feigned, nor can it be forced. It flows like a river that does not ask permission to move.

Consider the life of Leonardo da Vinci, whose journals overflow with sketches, inventions, reflections, and fragments of prose. He wrote constantly, not only to preserve knowledge but to explore the movement of his own mind. Many of those notes were never meant for others to see, yet they reveal the greatness of a soul that found joy in the act itself. Like Quinn, Leonardo loved to write, and his unceasing practice left a treasury of insight that still shapes us centuries later.

Quinn’s words also remind us that to write poetry is not to wait for grand subjects alone. Poetry lives in the daily and the ordinary. When he says he writes “all the time,” he reveals the secret of mastery: quantity prepares the ground for quality. A hundred rough lines may give birth to one line of gold. But without the hundred, the golden one would never come. The continual act of writing keeps the hand supple, the mind alive, the heart attentive to the world’s whispers.

There is also humility in this statement. To love writing is not necessarily to claim greatness in it. It is enough that the act brings joy, enough that it keeps the spirit awake. The great Japanese poet Matsuo Bash? once said that his goal was not to seek fame but to follow the way of poetry like a pilgrim. He wrote haiku not to impress but to live in harmony with the world. In this same spirit, Quinn’s constant writing is less about acclaim than about living fully, with words as companions along the road.

The lesson for us is clear: do not wait for the perfect moment to create, or for the great idea to arrive fully formed. Begin now, write now, and keep writing always. Even if your words seem poor, even if they are only fragments, they are steps along the path. Love the act, not merely the result. Let writing be your daily bread, your quiet prayer, your way of noticing the world. The constant flow of practice will one day bear fruit beyond your imagining.

In practice, let each seeker of words adopt a discipline. Carry a notebook, or write upon the blank spaces of your day. Set aside fear of judgment and let your love of writing carry you forward. Write poetry when the heart demands it, write stories when the mind stirs, write reflections when silence presses in. Do not measure your worth by what is finished, but by your willingness to return to the page again and again.

Thus the teaching endures: to write all the time is to live in conversation with oneself and with the world. Colin Quinn’s words remind us that the true writer is not made by fame or recognition, but by love. If you, too, embrace this love, if you keep your hand moving and your heart open, your words may one day become lanterns to others. But even if they do not, they will already have lit your own path.