Why do you write?
Is it because you need to? Because so many stories swirl around your head, rife with characters so desperate to draw breath, even in imagined form, that they compel you ever onwards?
Do you write to seek some form of immortality? For what is the fear of death, but the fear of being forgotten? The fear that you cease to exist and no one remembers. Do you put pen to paper, words to screen, to preserve some part of yourself for the future generations, in some bid to live forever?
Or is it just to escape? Do you write the feelings so that you don’t have to feel them? Is it safer when they belong to someone else, some character printed on a screen who lives only in imagination and pretend? But do you not feel with them, every step and fear, so are they not still your own, even as you give them away to another? How can you escape yourself?
Why do you write? To share some deep wisdom with the world? To save some terrible heartbreak or reveal the pathway to peace? To hide your opinions between the lines and see if anyone can understand or care?
Why do you need a reason? Do the masses question why a photographer took a photo? Or why an artist painted a portrait? They took the photo because the picture was there, waiting to be immortalized. The artist painted because the subject was there, waiting to be shared. Why must there be another reason to write, other than because the story is simply there? Why must there be so much “over thinking”? Why is writing expected to contain so many complex “reasons”; so many secret wisdoms and symbols? Why must the motivation be so much grander? Why must this be some higher calling? Why can it simply not be?
Why is it that you carry on, day to day, and put pen to paper? Why is it that YOU write?