It’s a question imbedded in the mind of most authors. I typed “why authors write” in the Google search box and got over 8 million references in .4 seconds. It’s a question with innumerable answers. But the most important one to determine is: why do I write.”
Here follows a peek into this author’s answer. The reflections are not in a ranked order; a weight-of-importance is not assigned to each. These are random thoughts out of a rambling mind.
For me. I write for me.
Put simply, it’s cathartic. It challenges my creative side, and results in pleasure when something is produced that I like . . . whether anyone else likes it or not. Whatever mix of nature-nurture produced it, fiddling with words is in my bones, maybe even in my DNA. If others read my stuff, well, shucks and hurrah. If not, I sleep just as well. I’ve written scores of poems over the years, none published and few shared. Crafting verses itself is reward enough.
I’ve been a wordsmith ever since Bob Adams and I got booted out of English class at Shortridge High School, Indianapolis for being unable to control our laughter over the teacher’s proffered example of personification: “Fifty pieces of brass went marching down the street.” I believe writing is a gift, and gifts are meant to be used. After all, if I gave someone a new car and they never even got in the driver’s seat, that would reveal their disdain at the gift. An accomplished wordsmith should take the dictionary to the anvil and hammer well-thought-out products . . . because it’s a gift.
Then there’s this: transcribing thoughts onto the printed page is also just plain fun.
For others. I write for others.
I write novels in the hope that they result in hours of reading pleasure.
I write theological works in the hope that the thoughts might help others along their spiritual journey.
I write articles and letters pointing out injustices, and encouraging advocacy efforts that work toward peace with justice. They mean more and do more than most people imagine.
I write letters to friends, some separated by long distances and too-long periods of time. Sometimes simply to let them know that I value our shared memories . . . and still value our friendship.
Human beings use words. We navigate down their linguistic rivers and oceanic depths throughout our lives . . . like fish who swim by necessity. One hopes to get them right – the words – at least part of the time. I shall keep trying.
