Why I Write
Why do I write? That’s a pretty stupid question, if you ask me. Why do I write? I don’t even know why I write. It’s not glamorous. It’s extremely difficult to find riches in writing. It takes a streak of luck that only the pagan gods can provide. If you’re an extrovert, it’s difficult to be cut off from people to work in a solitary field. If you’re an introvert, it can be difficult to be cut off from people to work in a solitary field.
The real answer to the question of why I write is I have no fucking clue. Is it to be heard after being silenced through trauma? Is that why people who write tend to have come from difficult living, in one way or another? Is there a reason mental illness tends to be a common denominator in writers and artists?
I don’t know why there is a desire to write down these stories that I tell myself. Why is there a desire to write it down, flesh it out, develop it into something that someone might want to pick up to read. They might like it, they might not. Given the present situation we find entertainment, the bar is pretty damned low.
What I do know is that when I don’t write, I don’t feel right. It feels wrong to not be writing, like I’ve abandoned these characters that I’ve breathed life into. I struggle with the desire to write and the desire to be a functional human fucking being. There is a desire to build a following that provides the funds for me to live and write, but my self-confidence has been shattered in the past. Something that I’m learning very slowly to rebuild, like gluing a broken vase back together. Except I’m drunk and smoking a cigarette.
I used to identify so well with Louis L’Amour, the writer that inspired me to actually pick up the pen, so to speak. However, the older I get, the more I feel like Hemingway. The sportsman who liked to drink and explore death and the vices. I lean more to the likes of Fleming, Clancy, Tolkien, and a dozen other writers I’ve read that I’ve enjoyed.
Someone recently told me that I was more like Thompson, but I’m not too sure about that one.
Maybe life has dealt me so much that I need to write in order for things to make any damn sense to me. I drink far too much coffee, maybe I smoke too much, and there isn’t enough whiskey in this world where I would be able to drink too much.
So maybe in response to such a fucking ridiculous question such as “Why do you write?” I just raise a glass, look at you through the smoke, and shrug.
