Well, after a long hiatus I have come back to the blog-o-sphere. New house, new job, and three classes of college down and here I am. In the interim, I completed two more drafts of my novel too, so it’s been full. Throughout it all, I continued to write. That got me to thinking about why I write so…
Why I Write:
I have often asked myself why I write. What purpose does it serve? Why do I subjugate myself to the criticism and mockery that inevitably comes in all shapes and sizes as drafts are written, read and critiqued? Is this helpful to my self esteem, or is it an anchor about my neck as I flounder against the waves and storms of life? Do I write to gain fame, that transient, fickle friend of the “has-beens” and “yet-to-be’s?” Do I write for the money? That’s a laugh. I think Friedrich Nietzsche said it best.
“The best author will be the one who is ashamed to become a writer.”
I write because I love to write. I do not write to be a writer, those fame and money hungry sycophants who write to be seen, to be noted. I write because I wish to be an author, a creator of worlds, and the master of my own fate. It is an outward expression of my inner thoughts and workings; my anchor against the storm. True, it would be nice to be published. It would be nice to earn some money. But that is not the focus. I write because the story needs telling. I am content.