Why I Write

I’ve noticed lately that I don’t always seem to fit the traditional descriptions of what or who makes a “writer.” I’m inherently an extrovert. I’m not particularly artsy. I’m not constantly cuddled up with a book. Yet, I love to write. It’s been my constant my whole life, what I always return to, what I always find time for, my true love.

When I tell others I am a writer they always ask me similar questions: What kinds of things do you write? What do you want to do with your writing? What are your goals? Are you ever gonna publish a book? Have you already been published? How long should it take? Why do you write? Have you considered self-publishing? These questions often stump me. I want to have a beautiful, concise, succinct answer, but often fail. I want to sound impressive, like I have it all figured out and have already had marked success. This (along with the fear of not paying rent!) in turn, causes me to second guess just what in the world I am doing! I worry about what others must think of my process and quite frankly, my job. I wonder, silently to myself, how long do I keep trying to “make it,” when do I give up?

So why do I do it? Why do I keep going. The simple answer is because I just can’t stop! It is what I was created to do. No other job I have ever had has satisfied and filled my soul in quite the same way--even the great jobs. There is something that God is wanting to communicate through me that only the written word can satisfy. I am not sure it has come out yet. I think of the projects I have started and stopped as I search for the right one. I consider it all practice, all worth while.

There may never be a New York Bestseller in my future, or a Pulitzer, I may never make much of a living--ha! But I must write. I must keep trying. I do and will continue to get jealous of other writers who have found their voice (some seemingly really quickly!) as I look for mine. I will continue to wrestle with thoughts of inadequacy as I long for something substantial that communicates to the masses that I have “made it” as a writer and therefore, a human. I must be willing to fall on my face over and over, to fail. I must be willing to make an absolute fool of myself and then put it all down on paper. Why do I write? I simply can’t not write.