It is not something that is easy to explain unless I’m speaking to another writer. Writing is a solitary pursuit. I’m no stranger to solitude and enjoy it. Writing is sort of thankless. At times all I have to show is an array of pages that don’t mean anything to anyone else. I haven’t been published but that’s in large part to my own choice not to pursue it yet. It’s a good question. Why do I write?
Why do I read? That’s a simple answer for me. Reading is relaxing for me. Reading is interesting for me. Reading provides puzzles for me. Reading is an escape for me. Why do I write? Writing is an outlet for ideas that swirl in my head like cinnamon through a yeasty bun. Writing allows me to crease alternate realities so I may fulfill some of my life fantasies. Writing is a way to soothe my uneasy soul when it’s too tough to talk through my troubles. Writing shows me things I didn’t know were inside. Writing makes me happy.
There you have it, the intellectual equivalent to “why do I swim?”