Someone reminded me yesterday that we write so we don’t forget.
Well, that’s one reason.
There are more.
Some of us write so we can forget whatever it is we’re trying to escape.
Some of us write to fill our paper (physical or digital) with the thoughts that would otherwise explode out of our heads. Like a siphon. Or a sponge.
Or maybe we write because we’re certain we’ll get rich and famous and beloved. I have an inkling that most of us want some form of this to some degree. There’s a powerful external validation to this writing business. Even if it’s a tweet or a Facebook post.
Some of us write because it’s easy. Some of us write because it’s hard.
Some of us skywrite where everyone can see it. Others of us hide our writing on public blogs because it’s ten years past the life of blogs.
Some of us love the sound of our own voices. Some of us love the sounds of the voices in our heads.
Some of us are battling demons, and those battles work better on the page than in our minds.
Some of us dream of a life that is completely unlike the one we live. We play out that life in sentences and chapters and books.
Some of us live a life of happy dreams and we just want to show it off.
Are any of these perfect reasons to write? Do any of the reasons perfectly answer for our motivations? Does that matter, really? Who needs perfect? Writing badly is better than not writing at all. Writing well is a gift to the one who puts fingers to pen or keyboard.
And having someone read that writing? It’s a taste of paradise. Particularly if they laugh where it’s funny, cry where it’s heartbreaking, grin in anticipation of the next line, or — when they come to the end — scramble for more. More.