Why I write...

Ever wonder why writers/authors write? Why they spend hours/weeks/months/years laboring over words that may never see the light of day or result in $$$?

I have a talented friend who’s also in the author trenches, and we often text each other: “Why are we doing this again?” Usually it’s after a painful rejection, or a petty 1-star review. Sometimes I wonder if we’re gluttons for punishment, or victims of the “who did this to you?” trope.

But when I think back over my sixteen years of writing, there’s one compelling reason for my eons behind the keyboard. And this reason still motivates me to tell stories despite the self-doubt battles, painful rejections, and lack of financial compensation.

To unpack this, I must rewind several years to younger me, with a two-year-old son just diagnosed with autism. To be clear, I love him just the way he is, with his beautiful neurodiverse brain, but parenting a kid with ASD is challenging, no matter where they are on the spectrum. (Because neurotypicals! But that’s another post). To give him the best possible chance at a functional and happy life, thirty-year-old me had to give up things (master’s degree, career, social life). In order to survive, I had to find an interest that was for me, something I loved and enjoyed just for the fun of it.  

People naturally gravitate toward what interests them. We ponder our true interests when driving, showering, folding laundry, taking a walk, etc. Since I was a kid, I used this mental-bingo-free-space to make up stories. I survived childhood lost in tales in my head, or between the pages of Jean Craighead George’s books, and later Robin McKinley’s fantasy novels. So, while my body might’ve been cringing in school hallways or (as a mom) building elaborate Thomas the Tank Engine layouts, my brain was in Middle Earth.

For some of us, this level of self-awareness is difficult (raises hand). But it hit me one December night in the light of the Christmas tree: I wanted to write my own stories. I wanted it so much my chest got that buzzy compressed feeling and my fingers tingled. Instead of scrolling through MySpace during my son’s rest/regulation time I wanted to create my own version of Middle Earth, or spin the dream I had about that pirate into a titillating yarn.

Even when my stories were terrible (and they were!) I loved the process of getting the words on the page. I loved the way the story began to breathe, to evolve in my brain as the words unspooled before my eyes. I loved the vocab, sentences, syllables, and rhythms. Use the word slender instead of skinny and the word choice transforms the meaning. Apply that dynamic on a macro level, in a novel, and the impact on human emotions – powerful!  I consider that a magnificent privilege – to entertain and intoxicate with words. First for myself, then for others.

I’m an author because I’m in love with the creative process of weaving stories and using language. I feel most satisfied when I’m lost in a story. And when these narratives are captured, I enjoy the reverie and escape they give me and my readers. It’s that simple.

If you’re a writer, does this resonate with you? If not, why do you write?

If you’re a reader, what do you think about my answer to this question? I’d love to read your comments, so tell me below.