Why do I write? Why do I take the time to write things down that a handful of people will read...and in the case of my writing outside of this blog, at best one or two other people will read? Some days when the writing is hard, when the words just won't come and even a sentence is a struggle to piece together, it seems better just to give up and go read. But I always come back. So why do I do it?
A few years ago I read a book about our need to tell stories, The Storytelling Animal by Jonathan Gottschall. It was a fascinating read, other than a completely unwarranted and baseless attack on the Sherlock Holmes stories. To tell stories, in Gottshall's rendering, is to be human. It's what we do. Everything in our lives is based around telling stories. A little thought on our history is enough to support his thesis; from cave paintings and oral storytelling to Shakespeare, Wilde, and YouTube web series and social gatherings, our lives revolve around telling and hearing stories. It is a creative impulse that we seem bound to give voice to.
It's interesting that in doing some browsing before writing this blog, I came across a survey asking writers why they write. A plethora of answers was the result, with no single reason winning a majority. 16% of the respondents, however, answered that they write because they have to! Not for fame, glory, or professional awards. They write because there is no choice in the matter, and this is a response I agree with. If someone assured me today with absolute certainty that nothing I've written, not a one of the short stories or longer works, would ever see print (disregarding, for a moment, self-publishing), I would still keep writing. I have to. I'm reminded of the character of Mike Noonan in Stephen King's Bag of Bones. Noonan, a writer, described how at the beginning of his career his head was filled with stories that ceaselessly hounded him, stories wanting to be told. He wrote book after book, until he had told all the stories that were within him. Sometimes I feel much the same way. The stories are there, and I have no choice but to tell them. Some I'm ready to tell now. For others, I know it isn't yet time. They will have to wait a little while. Publication is irrelevant; the stories must be told. Even if the stories end up being only for me, the effort spent in writing and editing was worth it. They still matter.
There is some joy in the act of creation, in making something that is new to the world, whether it is writing or painting or sculpting or acting or whatever other creative act one engages in. There is struggle, yes, but those days where the act of making something new is hard make the good days all the better, the days where the words just flow and everything works. Even on the bad days, I never seriously think about quitting. For me there is no option but to write. A life without writing seems unthinkable.
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