Why do I write?
The question was asked in a conversation going on in my head. I had to stop and think past the pat answer, like enjoyment, or just being able to creatively express myself.
My head conversation continued:
But really, why do I write, Jeff?
Honestly, I don’t know. Me, myself and I have often discussed this.
That’s not an answer, Jeff. There has to be something, something inside or out, that brings you back again, and again, to fill an empty page with words.
Right now, I really don’t know. Sometimes writing seems like a preordained calling from high above, one that cannot be disobeyed.
Other times, it’s a good feeling to write, but that’s a feeling. Feelings can be so feeble, so fleeting, and they can move depending on the wind’s direction.
Then that’s not all of what I believe writing is then, is it Jeff?
No, me, but part of it’s fun. It’s building a simple shanty, a family home, or even a gorgeous mansion, word by word. Ideas are the architect. Punctuation marks are the nails. Grammar insulates the walls, and thoughts brick the exterior with meaning, both obvious and hidden.
Maybe it’s the energy, the electrical system that brings light and power to writing. Yet troubles, problems, ordinary aches of the day flush through the plumbing leaving both writer and reader freer of the toxic septic of the day.
But still I ask, why?
Maybe it’s just a way to imagine a “goober snatcher” that came from a distant star to travel along as a child’s make-believe friend.
Or a way to relive, via description, my most embarrassing moments and laugh now at what was excruciating then.
Or maybe it’s to encourage the weak, poor and down trodden, to tell them there is still hope that things will be better.
But why, Jeff?
Well, maybe it’s because the weakest ink lasts longer than the strongest memory. Maybe I just want my children and grandchildren to know what I think and feel today, even when it’s normal they won’t be interested until after I’m gone.
OK, me. That seems closer, but it still doesn’t answer my question.
Maybe because each stage of life is woven together by day to day events, and writing helps move life along together, like the moon pulling on ocean waves causing high, and low, tides.
Maybe Jeff, but I really want to know. WHY write!?
Maybe it’s because reading words on paper, words that have spilled out of my over active mind, words that feel part of life are now organized on paper, clean, washed, and pressed, at least in that one drawer.
Maybe it’s a great ambition to write a world renowned classic. Or possibly the opposite, just a lack of self-esteem that prods me to put down jots and ink dribbles in a feeble attempt to try and explain.
You don’t really know why you write, do you, Jeff?
No. No self, I don’t know.
Then why do it?
Self, somehow, some way, these words, these pages, they become slivers of me. Other than that, I have no idea.
Question, blogging friend — why do you write?