Reasons to Write (Besides Getting Published)

Image courtesy of Anusorn P Nachol / FreeDigitalPhotos.net I was in a bookstore the other day, browsing the books about writing section and it made me sad.  It seemed every title was about getting published.  There were books about getting an agent, writing for children, completing your manuscript in thirty days.  (Thirty day!!!)


It appears the definition of writing has become very narrow.  Judging from those shelves there’s no reason to write except to get published. 

For me there are so many reasons to pick up my pen.  Writing offers a rich and varied spectrum of benefits: a veritable rainbow of gifts.  I’m not knocking publication.  It is thrilling to be published (at least briefly).  But if I had to give up one colour in my writing rainbow it would be the one for publication.  Really.  All the other gifts writing has to offer mean more to me.

Here are some of them:

The page is the perfect listener.  The page never interrupts, never judges, never changes the subject when it gets uncomfortable, and it never ignores me.  The page has been my longest relationship, my most constant comfort.

The page is an oracle.  Maybe not an oracle exactly, but whenever I feel unsure of what to do, either because I have too many choices or too few, I write it down.  Without fail, getting my jumbled thoughts onto the page helps me to find a solution. 

The page is my witness.  Whether it is a notebook I take on holiday, or my day-to-day journal, writing is way to document my life.  It bears witness to all the ways I change and all the ways I stay the same.  How comforting and exciting. 

The page is stronger than I am.  In times of great stress when the weight on me becomes too much to bear, I unburden myself on the page.  The page is always strong enough to carry what I cannot. 

The page is my constant companion.  With a pen and a notebook there is always someone for me to talk to, to tell my new idea to, to ramble on to.  With the page I am never lonely.

Writing has been everything from therapy, to companionship, to charting my journey, to a way of making money for me.  Mostly it has been my joy.  Staring at those books in the bookstore that tried to turn writing into little more than an exercise for my ego made me reach for my notebook and begin listing all the reasons that I write.  It made me want to count my blessings.