Sometimes I wonder, why do I write? What is it that makes me want to put my figurative or literal pen to paper and form words and stories?
Sometimes, I have no clear answer. Is it because I love the thrill of creating new stories and characters and composing relatable emotional experiences? Is it because I crave the idea of other people feeling my heart and mind through my words and loving those words so much they laugh and cry over them? Is it the alluring image in my head of my name sitting at the top of the bestselling authors’ lists? Is it because writing is the way I communicate best with the world, so much so, that I feel I would suffocate if my hands were cut off or my pen was taken away? Is it that writing through my thoughts and analyzing and questions is how I come to know my own self, who I truly am under all the facades and appearances? Is it the fact that I simply can’t not write, even through the frequent drudgery and struggles of writer’s block or the self-revulsion over the pathetic excuse for writing that often comes out of my fingertips?
Maybe it’s a bit of all of those.
But no matter what the reason is, I just keep on doing it. Keep writing and writing and writing. Plow through the blockages, worries, frustrations, and the toxic apathy. Although I may never see my manuscripts published (but a fighting chance says I will), or experience the raves and reviews of loving fans (but I have faith I will someday), I still write. Even though I sometimes feel a panicky, gnawing futility in putting my thoughts and ideas down on paper, I still write. Despite the mysteries and inexplicable perplexities I perpetually encounter about myself and the world, I still write.
Somehow, some way, in all its messiness and craziness and unpredictability, I still love it. Writing has become a necessity in my life, in a bigger way than I thought possible, more than anything else that I value in this way.
This, I suppose, is why I write.