Today is National I Love to Write Day and I wanted to take the opportunity to talk about something I get asked more often than you’d think: “Why do you write?”
It’s a fair question. My friends read my blog, peering into whatever mental adventure I’m on this week and every now and then someone will ask what exactly drives me to sit down time after time and turn thoughts into paragraphs.
The answer isn’t simple. Few worthwhile answers are.
Why do I write?
The short version: writing helps me think.
When I write, I’m not just arranging words. I’m organizing thoughts, chasing ideas down side trails I wouldn’t normally take and discovering connections I didn’t know were there. Writing lets me explore concepts, test assumptions and occasionally stumble across truths I didn’t realize I believed.
I should also confess that writing is profoundly therapeutic. I could spend an hour on someone’s couch talking about my feelings or I could spend that same hour to dive into my own mind, spelunking through the caverns of my own inner space, armed with nothing but a keyboard and a questionable sense of direction. Writing helps me understand myself. It also helps me understand other people, which is surprising given how little writing is actually required when talking to anyone.
Writing, for me, is the ultimate tool for mental organization. My brain, left to its own devices, is a chaotic mess, a thrift store packed to the rafters with ideas, broken concepts and half-formed arguments. When I sit down to write, it forces me to sort through the clutter.
It helps me frame ideas, explore concepts and truly understand things I might otherwise only vaguely embrace. It’s the difference between glancing at a map and actually drawing the route yourself. It’s only by wrestling with the language, trying to put that fuzzy thought into a crisp, clean sentence, that I realize what I actually believe or what I’m truly trying to say.
The blank page offers zero judgment. It’s a silent, dedicated listener where I can dig into complicated emotions, explore conflicting motivations and ultimately, understand myself a little better. By understanding my own messy internal landscape, I find I gain a little more grace and insight into the people around me, too.
But writing takes time and I don’t have much of that.
Free time and I have a complicated relationship. It’s a mythical creature that I rarely encounter. We see each other usually in the dark. My writing windows tend to be
- Early morning, before anyone else wakes up and before the day starts making demands.
- Late evening, when I have those precious few quiet minutes before bed.
That’s usually it. Creativity, unfortunately, does not always RSVP for those windows.
Writing is hard. Anyone who says otherwise is lying.
Sure, anyone can slap a few words onto a page. That’s how all of my ideas start. But is it real writing? Real writing tries to say something. It tries to explore an idea with clarity and shape it into something eloquent or at least coherent.
The Sacrifice and the Scraps.
And then comes the editing.
My process is probably a bit obsessive. Left to my own devices, I will edit compulsively. I will edit the edits. I will revise the revision of the revision. I have to set deadlines or I’d still be tweaking this sentence. It’s a minor sentence in the essay, but maybe given enough edits, I can make it sound profound. Saying “this is as good as it gets” is an effort of faith. Maybe just one more edit…
We write all the time, all great ideas. To do lists, notes to self, grocery store objectives. All of it is a stream of unconsolidated thought. True writing is different. It has to be compelling, thoughtful, inspiring. We, as a civilization, write to present ideas, to question assumptions, to incite action. I learned that in graduate school. You have to challenge accepted norms to make that next incremental step. It’s a slow iteration from word to sentence to paragraph. To me, the craft of writing is exploring ideas and concepts and then organizing those words in an elegant, impactful way. That’s probably the hardest part.
The truth is, most of what I write never sees the light of day. On an average blog, only about 10% of what I write actually gets published. The other 90% are ideas, some good, some questionable, some cursed, that simply don’t fit the final message. These orphans of creativity are scattered across notebooks, tablets and computer folders. Some wait patiently for a future home. Others hope I forget they exist.
The Muse.
Finally, there’s the muse.
I do have one, but we absolutely do not keep the same schedule. Sometimes, I’m lucky enough to get what feels like a surprise conjugal visit.
Inspiration strikes and suddenly I can write a polished page a minute, my fingers barely keeping up. Ideas flow like a faucet that has no shutoff valve. My fingers can’t hit the keyboard fast enough.
Other times, I stare at a blank screen for an hour, a silent empty void, attempting to will words to appear, and the page stays accusingly blank and judgmental as ever.
That’s the truth of writing: it’s glorious, frustrating, clarifying, exhausting and deeply rewarding, even when it feels like dragging thoughts uphill through wet cement.
So why do I write?
Because it helps me become a better thinker, a better observer and hopefully a better human.
Because ideas deserve room to breathe.
Because stories matter.
Because reflection is its own kind of compass.
Because the act of writing itself teaches me things I didn’t realize I needed to learn.
And maybe, simply, because I love it. Ultimately, I write because it is the most honest work I do. It’s the hard time-consuming effort that forces my brain to be clear, my heart to be understood and my voice to be heard, even if only by myself.
Happy National I Love to Write Day to everyone who wrestles with words, courts their muse and battles the blank page, but keeps writing anyway.
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