Why We Write

Why I Write

Why do I write? Well, it’s not really a question I’ve ever considered. Why write? Who knows? I write when I’m told to. Those sentences to learn grammar in first grade, the paragraph for that short answer question on a fifth grade test, an essay about a book in seventh grade, and those “creative” stories about morals in eighth.

Is that why I write? So I can fit in and function in society? Nah, I’ve done more than that.

The high school papers on books, people, and issues were also written when I was told. Though, I felt a little more invested in the topic than those grade school papers, if you can even call them that. There were the creative stories for a writing class and the essays meant to win me a spot in college.

Is that why I write? A slight interest or society breathing down my neck for “a good college education?” Nah, I’ve done more than that.

What about those college papers that make me groan at the thought of starting? What about those college papers that are, at the least, 25% of my grade? Sure, there are the easy one-pagers I could care less about, but those classes demand good grades. Good grades for a higher GPA so I can get that job that will probably never ask a formal, five plus page essay paper from me.

Is that why I write? For a good grade so I can have that hopefully good job when I graduate? Nah, I’ve done more than that.

How about my free time? I’ve written on my own before; charged myself with a vague task I wouldn’t be bothered about if I stopped. What about those story plots that get written on a scrap of paper and saved? Why save a plot or idea for five years?

Is that why I write? For a maybe-story, short or long, in my future? Nah, I’ve done more than that.

There are those occasional poems I make; though, usually only partway until a sigh of frustration escapes my lips. There is that collection of quotes gathered throughout at least five years of my life saved on a Word Document, which I continue to add to.

Is that why I write? To be remembered for a certain string of words? To find inspiration in my own writing rather than someone else’s? Nah, I’ve done more than that.

What’s more than that? What’s more than a little of being able to function in life? A little of slight interests, good education, good grades, a good job, a future story, an inspiration, and leaving a mark in the world?

There’s the feeling. When I get that ‘A’ on a paper and want to trot it around like a proud pony; if only I were the type of person to do that, but the feeling’s the same. There’s that feeling when I finish a writing of some kind. Relief. Accomplishment. Pure, sweet success untainted with outside help. That’s a feeling. Then there’s the other one; not the stress at starting something, not the finished project, and not the outside judgment or reasons. The one when you’re writing, when I’m writing. That indescribable little tingle and thrill at creating something never before made, not exactly. That strange bit of excitement when I get on a roll, with fingers scrambling to keep up with my mind. That brand new expression of ideas, thoughts, and facts combined, all of which are mine. The wonder at making simple or odd words fit together for another person to read, or maybe for my eyes only. That’s a feeling. The knowledge I can’t be cut off, that what I write will affect another’s emotions and perhaps even alter their way of thinking. That’s an accomplishment. The type of writing that you know, that I know, makes a difference in the world in some way, small or large.

Is that why I write? …I hope so. You can’t do much more than that.