Why do we write?
The hours are long and lonely. We carve spare minutes out of the daily bustle sacrificing relax time for type time. When our friends are out having coffee together we are sitting alone agonizing over verbiage and plots. Like geese driven to the long flight writers force themselves to sit at their keyboards and create story from nothing.
The words wake us up at night stealing our sleep, tales sneaking in as dreams... or are the dreams coming to life as stories. We live in a world that has layers of reality. Nothing is ever as it seems and every passerby is a character. We are enslaved by syntax and the play of syllable against the tongue. Rulers of our inner worlds, but like all good leaders we are its servant as well. The creator is slave to creation.
Why do we write? Like anything, we all have our reasons. I write because words roll around in my head of their own accord, demanding to be set free. They set themselves out to their own pattern, oblivious to my planning. The plots spawn independently, fathered by chance meetings and nurtured in daydreams. I couldn't stop the stories if I wanted to. They come, unbidden, like phantoms full of secrets. Like a medium I find myself serving two worlds - this one and the one waiting to be written.
Why do I write? I spin words because they translate this strange world for me. I write because I love the way words look, taste and feel in the mind. I write because words save me. Were I not to have words I would be locked up, insane and shuddering under the onslaught of images I would be helpless to stop. Writing keeps my mind on its axis. Words keep me in orbit.
Why do writers write? Because we are.