Why Do You Write?

Sometimes I wonder why I write.  I ask myself: why struggle to write books or stories that so few people may even stumble across in this vast world of words?  Why try to add to a mass of literature that already holds more treasures than a person can read in a lifetime?  
 


Then I remember.

I write because the act of creating and shaping stories gives meaning to my life.  It is mostly
through writing that I arrive at any understanding of myself and the world.  For me writing is an ink-driven pilgrimage and my time at the desk is as soul-enriching as time spent on my yoga
mat or on a meditation cushion.

I write because words are how I connect with the world and with myself.  In that sense my words are no different than the first cave paintings.  They emerge for the same reasons and by the same impulse. To say: I was here.  To say: I thought and dreamed and struggled and occasionally triumphed.  To say: I am no different than you.

Years of writing have convinced me that the work of shaping stories has shaped me.  That
through a dedication to craft and truth, to self-exploration combined with a curiosity about and compassion for the world have worn away some sharp edges of judgement and stripped off a few layers of armour from my heart.  I would not be who I am without writing the stories I have written.  My work creates me as much as I create it.  I keep writing, curious to discover who I will become.   

What about you?  If there was no chance of fame and fortune, would you still write? Would words still pore from you? Would your stories still crack you open and be told?