As I’m sitting here after days of not much sleep, hygiene or social interaction, I begin to wonder why I do this to myself? The hours of writing, researching, editing, and rewriting, and rewriting, and rewriting…
In an attempt to justify my life choices, I have compiled a self-indulgent list of why I’m a writer:
1. I love words.
Seriously, I could read a dictionary and be entertained. No really, I’m that much fun. My favorite is the Oxford English Reference Dictionary that explains the roots of words. I love how words sound, and how they can be arranged into mind-boggling combinations to create meaning and emotional impact. There’s a rhythm to words and language, and I love every bit of it. Speaking of rhythm and music:
2. I can’t sing.
I firmly believe music is one of our purest art forms. With or without words, a song instantly paints a picture, tells a story and conveys emotion. Granted, I can play piano and clarinet (note very well), but I can’t sing worth a damn. If I could sing you a song, I would. But my singing sounds like a dying cat, and so I’ll have to write you something instead.
3. Writing justifies the amount of bourbon I consume.
4. Writing is cheap.
A writer only needs pen and paper. If you want to get fancy, you can always get a computer or an iPad. Or a typing monkey.
5. Stories are important.
A good story transports you to another world, gives you a new perspective, presents a new idea and entertains. Stories are how we relate to one another, and how we make sense of the general chaos that is life.
For better or worse, stories show our humanity. Yes, stories are important and somebody needs to write them down.
Why do you write?