Is it necessary for an artist to know why he paints, or a ballerina to know why she is possessed by a passion to ballet? Need a nightingale know why she serenades the sleeping world or the moon understand why he is enraptured by the blue earth, around which he revolves day and night, yet never dares to embrace her for the fear they will collide and die?
There is no want in them to fathom the mystery of those passions that are beyond comprehension.
Then must a lowly writer such as I question why I write?
I know not.
And yet, when the night is starless and witchy, when all is lonesome like a solitary wolf weeping under the moon, when the world is so silent that I can hear the pencil moving against paper, I seek answers…
…to understand why of all the noble trades there are, of the endless streams of possibilities, I picked up the quill and chose to be a writer.
I write… because I know I can. Because it is writing that keeps the artist within me alive. Because there is much pleasure in writing and because writing comes easily to me (or maybe because I find myself bad at all the other things). I can’t remember a day I haven’t been in love with words. Words comfort me, the way no living soul can hope to comfort me.
I write because there is so much to write about, and oftentimes, I am overwhelmed when I see and feel and experience the world around me. It all deserves to be captured in ink, and not in my memory alone.
Writing is self-discovery- like looking into the mirror of the soul to see oneself being truly reflected. It’s a thread that connects me to other people, people sitting half the world across, people I may never even meet. But people who, knowingly or unknowingly, are related to me with the bond not of blood but of words.
I write because I refuse to be silent. Our words have power and it’s the duty of every writer to change what needs change. I write because there is nothing like the freedom a white sheet brings to me. I can write anything, anything at all.
I write because my muse exists. And I, as a writer, consider it my humble duty to put to paper his indescribable graces.
I write because if I don’t, I feel incomplete. I feel like I’m destined to be married to words. Writing is as important as breathing, without which, there is a restlessness inside, like life turning to ash, like drowning in tears, like a pain that will never pass.
Writing is like making love to the virgin paper in the hour of desolation or in the happy hour, knowing that this love will outlast death. It will never abandon me like the lovers who last but a season or two.
I write because only words will understand the pain, the agony, the suffering that I beneath my human cover bear. Are all artists sufferers? I don’t think so. But all artists suffer artistically.
There is a void within me if it isn’t for writing. What life denies me, words afford me. Things too beautiful for reality survive in between inky sheets. And when I weep, my words bleed.
All artists have something only their art can say. And I have, like everyone else, a story to tell.
Writing will bring me the many joys of being a writer, and perhaps fulfill my faint hope of immortality. Or maybe I’ll die unknown, leaving behind some dusty old sheets of forgotten poems. And yet I’ll write the stories I can write today, for there are only a few tomorrows.
There is so much passion contained within words! And though there is plenty that life makes me experience, writing is what makes me experience life.
I write because of all the reasons, I didn’t choose to write, perhaps writing chose me. And there is no me if in me there is no writer.
Why do you write?