Why I Write

I've been thinking about what moved me to start writing, as I'm slogging through the rewrite process for my first full-length book. When I'm looking for inspiration, I remind myself of these things because it motivates me to keep going.

I write because I love finding just the right words to express something I'm thinking about or imagining. Words hold promise and power.

I write so I know what I know, giving some sense of organization to my thought patterns, and inviting me to explore beliefs.

I write to make sense of the world, and my place in it even though the world often doesn't make sense even after I've written.

I write to communicate with others who may read it so they might gain access to another perspective. I suppose part of me seeks reassurance, agreement, or validation, though I'd rather it not be for that.

I write to unearth the ideas otherwise lying dormant in my psyche. Sometimes I'm surprised by what lurks in my soft underbelly.

I write to purge emotions that need names and crave attention so they can be placed in the light of observation.

I write for the sound of the keys clicking and the voice in my head reading the words. There is a certain satisfaction in knowing the loop between my heart, brain, and fingers crashing the keyboard results in the production of something. Maybe something wonderful!

I write to be seen, heard, and known in an archival way. My writing becomes a way to see the progression of my soul.

I write for my children and grandchildren, so something is left here when I'm gone. 

I write for the fun of it even though it isn't always fun. When inspiration eludes me I write anyway because the act of writing inspires me.

I write because I see myself as a provocateur; hoping to ignite something new in someone else.

I write because it satisfies something deep inside me that feels innate and undeniable.

I write to be like a carrier pigeon, the messenger of sentiments from soul to soul.