Have you ever questioned your motivation for something? Did you discover a simple answer or are you a mass of contradictions?
I write because I love books and everything to do with them. The idea of someday writing one of my own would be like turning up to gatecrash a party and finding your name already on the guest list – confirmation I ‘d finally arrived.
I write to understand the world and myself. Ideas and thoughts are so fluid – writing them down helps me grasp them, hold them, feel them and remember them.
I write so that I’m not invisible.
I write because I want to be right. I want someone, somewhere to think, “You know… she’s got a point.”
I write to conceal my stationary addiction.
I write because I think and feel too much and it’s all got to go somewhere. Some of it is self-indulgence and seeing it on paper helps me recognize it and lets me choose to ignore it next time it invades my thoughts.
I write because I’m good at it. English lessons at school were like coming home and the teachers, supportive, nurturing relatives. It was the closest I got to being valued for being me.
I write because I want to be the next big thing.
I write because I’m lonely; no one will ever really know me and the thought of that is quite despairing at times. I don’t know if I can ever make myself understood but even trapped within someone else’s perception of me, I can still let my thoughts soar.
I write because I need constant confirmation that I can.
I write because I have Asperger’s and bipolar illness; it gets overcrowded in my head and writing helps release the pressure. Sometimes I find it hard to be around people but writing lets me still talk to you.
I write because no one can hear me when I speak. I used to have terrible recurring dreams where I couldn’t make myself heard, no matter how hard I tried. They stopped when I started writing.
I write because I can hide behind my words – actors are visible writers aren’t. I’m really kinda shy…
I write because writing down a thought means putting it out there and living with it forever and that’s the most powerful thing I can do.
I write because it passes the time.
I write because I like making things – words are like beads, you select them carefully, checking for colour, shine, translucency, weight, and thread them in a precise order to create a thing of beauty. Nothing beats the high of striving for perfection. If achieving it were possible, it would fall far short of the joy of trying.
I write because I’m an observer not a participant. I’m uncomfortable as the centre of attention – I’m happy just to be allowed in the room. Writing lets me sit by the fire without getting burnt.
I write because what I say is forgettable but what I write endures.
I write because it helps me to be real, it’s organic and comes from inside – it’s pure and good for you and better than taking vitamins.
I write because I want my genius to be known.
I write because it costs nothing. Ikea give you free pencils and there’s always something around to scribble on – a napkin, a receipt, a wall, a limb. What kind of writer waits until they’ve saved up enough for a Montblanc or a Visconti?
I write because I’m enjoying getting away with it before someone realizes I’m just winging it.
It’s cheaper than therapy.
I write because I have a strong brave voice on paper but I’m a wuss in reality and it’s the only way I know to bring those two states closer together.
I write because I want my parents to be proud of me.
I write because I just do. I always have. Even when I’m not writing, I’m narrating in my head.
I write to escape my thoughts.
I write because I’m selfish, insecure, thoughtless, arrogant, hypocritical and I talk too loud – on paper, I’m more palatable.
I write because I want to mean something to myself.
I write because I like talking to you.
I also like listening, so tell me… why do you write?