Why I Write

I'm not sure why other people write.  In my college creative writing classes, there was always one guy who, when faced with criticism of his work, would respond, "Well, I write for myself."

To which I'd think, "Then why are you making us read this shit?"

I don't write for myself.  I have never been able to keep a journal.  I have about half a dozen really nice leather-bound journals, each of which has only two or three pages filled in.  I always got too tired of trying to fill in the back story, before I got to the good stuff.

I've heard that some writers write because they need to write.  They just have this all-consuming desire to get their words on the page, to express themselves, to see the beauty of their language bloom in a million scintillating metaphors.

That ain't me either.  I need to eat.  I need to rest.  Sometimes I need to vent.  OK, often I need to vent.  But that's about it: eating, resting, occasionally yelling.  Writing doesn't even make the top three needs.

So why do I write?  Because I've got these stories, and I think they might be good.  I think they might be original.  I think they might be entertaining.

When I was a kid, I used to gobble up fantasy and sci-fi lit like you wouldn't believe, because I loved the new worlds they contained.  I liked to imagine myself living in those worlds, interacting with the characters, having great adventures.  And very early on I started dreaming up fantasy worlds of my own.  (There's probably an obvious psychological explanation for this behavior, but that's not what this post is about.)

And here's the thing about a story.  It's worthless if you keep it to yourself.  Stories are meant to be told, to be shared and passed on.

I want other people to get to traipse about in worlds of my creation.

I want characters I've imagined to take up residence in the minds of others, where they can bother someone else for a while.

That's why I write.