I don’t think I’ve ever been asked why I write. I’ve been asked IF I like to write, to which I would respond an enthusiastic yes. I hadn’t ever thought about why I write though, and for some reason the question perplexes me. It shouldn’t. It seems so simple, but some of the simplest questions have the most complex answers.
I suppose I write for the feeling of clarity, the wondrous moment when you have finally found the words to describe an elusive sentiment tormenting your thoughts. It is so very liberating to dictate your thoughts upon paper. Then it is not just a dream that floats aimlessly through your mind, or an epiphany that no one shall ever hear. It exists in a concrete way. It validates an idea, so that others might join or affirm your contemplation.
I write because whether writing fiction or nonfiction, words have the potential to free your thoughts from the limits of nonexistence. You can place ideas on paper, or type them into a blog, and suddenly they are not theory, but fact within the four walls of the page. They exist fully and completely on the page, whether they are true, or not.
I suppose the reason I write is to feel free.