Why do you write?

Or why not?

Welcome. I have been waiting for you. Would you like an apple? There are so many apples this fall. The water is about to boil in the kettle, to make a cup of tea or coffee. I have a question I have been thinking about, and I wonder how you’d respond.

Why do you write?

Such a straightforward question, one that with time should gain a crystal-clear answer. And yet, when once again the question popped up, I felt suddenly that the answer has morphed over the years and instead of clarifying and polishing the answer I don’t know what the core reason for writing is.

The advice, “Write to find the answer” seems appropriate. I open my journal and begin scribbling.

I started writing for a practical reason. I wished to be a better teacher to the young writers in my class. The best way to do it was to learn and practice the life and craft of writers.

Joining a writing community added the value of connection. The writing challenges added excitement.  The writing classes brought new perspectives.

Once, when I had read Margaret Atwood's Negotiating with the Dead: A Writer on Writing, where she had compiled a list of answers from writers to the question "Why do you write?" - a whole page of reasons, including for example, to please the reader, creating is divine, for revenge, to protect the human spirit, and if I didn't write I would die - I wrote a list of my own.

Here they are:  to notice the positive, to remember, to experiment, to empty the mind, to organise thinking, to choose perspective, to get out the annoying, to celebrate the wonderful, to feel that I can write, to become better at writing, to set an example to my students, it is safe to do, it is easier than singing or painting, it doesn't require complicated equipment, I can do it on my living room sofa, I don't need to do my hair or makeup, it's addictive, I like comments, others said it's good for me, others said I am good at it, to discover myself, to create myself, to be myself, to make others happy, to share my stories, writing creates magic, to make sense of the world, to understand people, to prove to myself that I can be a writer, to prove to others that I can do it, to fool myself, to console myself, to play, to be noticed, to become famous, my ego needs it, my creative spirit nudges me, others encourage me, friends invite me to write, writing is a useful skill to have, sometimes it's easier to write than to speak, it can bring joy, it's fun, why not. 

All of the things listed above still ring true.

Over the years something strange, unexplainable, almost spell-bound has happened. Writing regularly has influenced my identity, wriggling into my being, becoming an invisible magnet connecting me to my pen and a journal, ink running in the bloodstream and now I can’t stop writing.

“What would happen if I stopped?” is too scary of a question to even contemplate.

Of course, the rational part in me, my knowledge and experience, my prefrontal cortex would calmly claim that me stopping writing would have no real consequences at all. The world would keep spinning, squirrels running, my skin wouldn’t peel off, my limbs would stay attached to my body, I’d continue living my life, eating chocolate and going for walks, my inner critic would find other avenues to torture me and I would still forget the cups of tea in random places. If anything, not writing would be a highly nature friendly sustainable practice. Think of all the trees saved form turning into journals and the energy conserved with discontinued cloud storage services.

That is the rational part. The emotional part of me couldn’t phantom the end of writing. It would mean that that my identity would tear from the seams, unravel into scraps, and I would have to start recreating myself again.

“Nuts. You are nuts,” my inner critic announces from the second living room sofa (of course he has showed up as soon as I started writing) while taking a peeled apple slice from a saucer on a coffee table and looking for a TV remote to watch reruns of Poirot.

“Shush!” if I had an apple, I’d throw it at him.

Yeah, maybe going so far as my life depending on it is a bit too much.

Right now, at this phase of my life the main reason for writing could be that it brings me joy. Getting ideas on paper and out to the world tastes as good as a piece of apple pie. With ice-cream. Hearing that someone else says that my words touched them, made them think, evoked emotion, inspired them also brings joy. In a way I have made the world a bit better place, sharing light and colour.

“Joy as your North Star? Really? That’s the core of your noble mission, vision and strategy? That’s the best you can come up with. Simon Sinek would roll his eyes. In opposite directions,” the critic generously shares his opinion, “Have you forgotten the times you fretted about not having anything to write about? Whining about the endless pages of embarrassing nonsense you have created? The moments of disappointment when no one responds to your writing?”

“There’s nothing wrong with joy. You should try some,” I respond, “Or better yet, you should try writing instead of commenting on everything I do.”

Touche! I feel victorious.

Maybe, if I were braver, I could say that I write because it allows me to look deep into myself and embrace the authenticity and share my true colours with the world, that it’s a form of self-love and self-care, that it’s a gift to others. Maybe I write because it’s a way to overcome the fear of other people opinions, the fear of judgement.

“So, your ego is trying to pretend to be humble,” the inner critic infers.

I disagree but have no energy to argue.

I think that joy of writing is good enough reason for writing. I have the time. I have the opportunity. I have some skills. There are readers who appreciate it. The playfulness and creativity spark and spice the everyday life.

I look at the inner critic, waiting for another remark. He has dozed off.

So, I keep writing.

Thank you so much for staying with me. I hope the critic didn’t bother you. I wonder, “Why do you write? And if you don’t write, why not?”