Thursday, March 26, 2009


[Sorry if this is cheesy. Just a post I've had rolling around in my mind for a while.]

Why do I write? Why do I spend so many hours of my life writing, editing what I’ve written, planning what I should write in future? I’ve heard a lot of reasons for a person to write, and I think all of them come into my own personal reasons to a degree.
Some people do it only when they have to: for school, for work, for correspondence. They write papers, reports, emails, only from necessity; as soon as they’re finished, they put down their pen with relief.
Some people do it simply for the enjoyment: they like being the master of their many worlds, creating people and places, deciding what should happen and when; or being master of their argument, laying forth the facts and persuasions as seems good to them. They like losing control and letting their worlds grow into beasts that demand their time and resources and soul. They can write a hundred pages a day and not get enough.
Some people write for attention. They ask themselves, what would be the weirdest way to deliver a poem; how can I get the biggest rush out of a story or the most outcry from an essay or manifesto? They write for the praise and the ridicule and the interviews and the critics and the fans.
Some people write because they have something they must communicate, out of want or need. They are driven by their dire conviction that as many people as possible must hear what they have to say. This isn’t, necessarily, out of an arrogant presumption that they know better than everyone else. Sometimes it is a purely altruistic thought: they truly believe they are writing for the benefit and knowledge of others.
I can’t say I’m completely free from any of these reasons. I think, perhaps, I possess a little of each. But most of all, first and foremost, I write because I must. I have to write; it is a demand from my innermost self. It is my outlet, my communication to myself, my creative bend, my hobby, my life. If I didn’t write, my self would be contained and never escape. My thoughts, my dreams, my worlds, my friends, my creatures, come out in my writing. Because they have to. Because I have to. It is my mission, set by myself, in some place and time outside of myself. And that is why I write.


Katie said...

Very beautifully said. :)

Snazel said...

You're posting so much; it makes me happy. And if this is cheese, BRING ON THE CHEESE. I'll provide the whine.

Bahnree said...

*bows* As you wish.
I live for your pleasure.