Why I Write

It’s not unusual for writers to wonder why they write – what led them to it, and why would they pursue something that holds such faint promise. Relative to many, if not most, vocations, it lacks certainty and security. We have limited time to build security so we can live comfortably and die happy. When I consider the cost to writing – much of it in forgone opportunity – I wonder why it was a good idea and whether it was worth the cost. In some (if not many) respects, writing is a fool’s errand. It takes a special temperament to dedicate oneself to this arduous and precarious path, and frequently I question if I have that temperament.

So, why do I write? Why did I choose a trail less traveled over terrain I could not see?

A common answer is, because we as writers have to. Something compels us to pursue this tenuous craft, to express something of uncertain genesis and less certain meaning. It remains something of a mystery to me, other than the simple and trite phrase, “because I had to,” and without doing so would have left this life, when that time comes, regretting not scratching that itch. I like to think that one’s mission to write is divinely inspired in that it comes from a deep and rich source that we as writers are allowed, or driven, to express in some manner unique to the individual writer. This is all conjecture of course, based on feeling, or a sense of knowing, rather than something verifiable and definite. It’s based in faith. It requires perseverance and patience.

It’s a love-hate relationship. At times there is nothing more gratifying, nothing that gives the writer a deeper sense of achievement. When it goes well, nothing strikes a more resonant chord, or holds more meaning and purpose, than writing. Vague as an outcome seems to be, it’s as if the writer tries to grab an apparition, and on occasion, succeeds.

On its polar side lies its inverse – a waste of time, an aberration of purpose or some such, but in the end, I return and keep going, trusting in a higher guidance that I feel but can’t hear, see, touch, or taste. At some level I know this work is important, and that it matters, although at times I’m hard pressed to give a reason why.

Now that the book is done, there is something of postpartum depression, or empty nester’s slump, that’s roosted. My baby is gone, shipped off to the big wide world, and it will sink or swim ultimately on its merits. There is something I can do as its parent to nurture it, but ultimately it will stand or fall on its own. It has, or will have, its own life force. It will live or die, and if it lives it may live well or it may hunt a cliff edge with its fingertips.

My life used to have four seasons – sheep season, cattle season, hunting season, and office season. I may someday simplify that to two – busy season and writing season. It can be tempting to simplify it to one – busy season, and let writing lapse. As busy season winds down, the hard part is to wake writing from its off-season slumber. It’s not unlike pushing a boulder – not too bad once you get it rolling and momentum builds, but difficult when starting from dead rest. It would be easier to “leave it lay” were it not for a barb that twists a tick, somewhere in the idle writer’s soul, that reminder that something is remiss, a neglected mission or diverted purpose that simmers and burns if left unattended.

So we buck-up and do it, and books are born.