Why do I write? There is no simple answer. I could roll out cliches like there’s no tomorrow, but the honest answer is: I don’t know.
It’s not for the fame and fortune. Of course, I’d be lying if I said that I wouldn’t love to see my name on the cover of a book, or something I’d written topping the bestsellers lists, but that isn’t the primary reason.
It’s not a purely emotional outlet. I have on occasion vented my frustration or pain through writing, but not always. Only a handful of my stories have been based on personal experiences and feelings.
It’s not always because I love it. Sometimes I hate it. Really hate it. Usually when I’m mid-way through a large project and I’m dragging myself to my desk, bribing myself with chocolate if I get some words down. When every word seems like pulling teeth and it’s almost physically painful, yet I still continue.
So, whydoI write? I can only conclude that it’s some deep rooted part of me, like the part that is repulsed by raw tomatoes or the part that is scared of fish. I can’t help but write, whether I like it or not.
Why do you write?