I write because I love it. There’s no other reason. Yes, literary fame and glory would be amazing beyond my wildest dreams, but it’s not the end goal. I write for me. For my benefit.
I don’t have an explanation, either. Many people seem to expect one, but to me, it’s like asking someone why they breathe or why they wear a coat outside in a snow storm. It’s just the natural thing to do.
And I can see why some people don’t understand. Writing is hard. It’s hard to form a cohesive idea, it’s hard to get motivated and start writing (like this editoral), and it’s hard to continue and finish to the end. Writing is messy. Ideas don’t often come in chronological order. And most of all, writing is risky. It’s nerve-racking to put so much of yourself in one project that might fail and be the subject of ridicule for all to mock.
But, as Philip Pullman wrote, “What is worth having is worth working for.” Writing is exhilarating. There’s nothing more thrilling than saying, “Fuck it,” tossing all your fears and doubts out the window, and just facing your words and ideas. Nothing is better than just telling yourself, “That’s what revision is for,” and just watching one sentence become a paragraph, a paragraph become a page, and a page become a story. That’s what writing is all about.
Writing is my own private thrill. It’s my passion and my pain.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
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