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 is 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.  

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