Why I write


I was 16 when I started writing, more out of low self esteem rather than delusions of grandeur. Mr. Christianson, my 11th grade creative writer teacher, would pick a story to read every Monday. Mostly they were funny anecdotes about cutting the crotch out of ex-boyfriend’s jeans or mildly interesting fiction. I didn’t pay much attention to it; I only took creative writing because I needed the extra credit. I wrote a story about a woman who has her coffee maker taken hostage by the mail man. I was seriously bored.  That following Monday, he picked mine to read aloud. The first time someone laughed at the appropriate spot in the story, I was hooked.

I suppose the question should be – ‘Can I write?’ as opposed to why I do it. Technically, I’m not the best writer. The commas elude me. But why does anyone do anything? Fame? That would be awesome. Money? Yeah, that’s awesome, too. Is it to right the world of obvious injustices or to convince yourself, for even a few hours, that what you’ve created would interest other people as much as it did you?

There is nothing more spectacular, or addictive, than creating a character out of nothing. To be able to convey emotions through the written world is fucking hard, but when you succeed, it’s exhilarating.

I write because I want people to see what I see, to feel what I feel, and to dream what I dream; to give that person the ‘ah ha!’ moment, and to elicit a specific emotion is sweeter than the sweetest jeebah.


I write because it allows me to conversationally curse properly. It allows me to say what I really wanted to say; to verbally backhand without the jail time. I can make fun of myself without the embarrassment. I can show you how painful I think love is without having to suffer. I can do all these things with just words on a paper.


I write because I’m good at it. Granted my grammar and punctuation isn’t all that great, but writing enables me to live beyond the confines of my 3 bedroom, 2 bath duplex. Every day I take a tired, used up idea and make it my own, hopefully making it better…and then I let it go. Imagine writing like a sift filtering a hundred ideas but keeping the good ones. Take that goop and turn it into a moment in time AND have it make sense, giving the reader your understanding, your sympathies, and forcing them to see your words as a wondrous entity. It’s like whispering a secret into someone’s ear and making them think about what you just created.

How fucking cool is that?  That’s why I write.