Writer

Why do I write?

When people ask me this question, I wish I had a quick, clever answer.

Something pithy and succinct in the vein of Steven Pressfield when he said:

“I am a writer.
I was born to do this.
I have no choice.”

Or in the words of Joan Didion:

“I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear.”

Like most writers here and gone, I can’t explain in a tagline my drive to write. It’s been there since I held a pencil for the first time.

Then there's the question:

What can happen when we pay attention to our lives?

This question drives so much of my existence, let alone my writing life.
 
I am insatiably curious about myself. Not so much out of vanity -- although I am vain to a degree, as are we all. But more because life fascinates me and there’s not enough time in one life to take it all in.

For me, taking it all in includes putting ink on the page. I love putting words in ink on the blank page, watching my ideas and thoughts and imagination unfold before my eyes.

I love the feel of a good pen in my hand and the sound it makes moving across thick paper in one of my bound journals.

And forget about when I discovered my parents’ electric typewriter.

You could call writing for me a calling. An obsession. An I-don’t-have-a-choice kind of deal. It’s impossible to ignore, like a man with kind eyes and needing to drink water everyday.

Like breathing.

I don’t question writing or why I am compelled to do it. I simply allow it to exist, a constant and reliable companion who brings me joy, a path to greater self-awareness and discovery, and welcome relief from the world’s endless supply of nonsense.

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