Why Do I Write?

by Kelley Lindberg

Why do I write?

That’s an interesting question, isn’t it? And one we’ve all asked ourselves at some point or another, I’m sure.

Is there a correct answer to that question? I doubt it.

Writing means different things to different people. And more than that, it can mean many different things to each of us.

I write. Of that one thing I am sure.

But why I write is always changing. Sometimes I write to earn money. Sometimes I write to learn something new. Sometimes I write to help out a friend, or a charitable cause, or family member.

I also write because I love writing – a phrase or a sentence will sing its way through my mind like a line of pelicans gliding over water, and I’ll feel compelled to capture it. A character will appear in my head and give me a come-hither look, and I’m seduced. A scene will present itself and I’ll have to write it down or lie awake all night wishing I had.

I write to persuade. I write to apologize. I write to confess, to love, to tease, to please, to play, to mourn.

I’ve tried other passions. I’ve pursued other careers, other hobbies. But I keep coming back to this one. I can’t imagine a time in my life when I won’t be pulling up a blank page and feeling the comfort – the perfect fit – of words appearing where a minute ago there were none.

And I’ve hated writing. I’ve agonized and writhed and hit the Delete key with wild, furious abandon. I’ve felt the acidic little knives of rejection. I’ve despaired of ever putting three words together that anyone but my mom would ever want to read. I’ve taken long vacations from writing. I’ve moved away, changed my address, and screened my calls. But writing still finds me.

And I open my door and welcome it in once more.

It’s an addiction I will never be free from. Nor it from me, I fear.

I write. Of that one thing I am sure.