Weather: High: 80º (O_0) and scattered thunderstorms
So warm day and my brain is a-whirl with plot development at the moment.
Why do I write? Well it’s a question that you can ask a thousand writers, and get a thousand subtle variations on a similar answer.
I write because I have no other choice.
I write because the ideas and plots and characters occupying my brain multiply at a rate that is hazardous to my mental health if I don’t spill all the info out onto the page.
I write because if I didn’t, my head would explode. Possibly literally, as in a scene from Scanners. And that wouldn’t be good, especially for anyone in the vicinity.
I write because if I didn’t, I’d start talking back to the verbose muses in my head, and that would land me in a bouncy room with a jacket in which I can hug myself all day. Sanity is not found in this direction.
I write because I love stories. Because I love to read stories & sometimes, I can’t find the stories I want to read, so I write them myself.
I write because I want to share the movie that constantly runs through my head.
I write because the characters that come to me need a chance to meet other people.
I write because it’s a great excuse to spend money on obscure reference texts and perform research on things that normally would get you strange looks, institutionalized or at least shunned from polite society. (Granted, you’ll still risk the possibility of all three, but if you tell them “It’s for a book.” they at least might switch to curious. )
Conversely, I DON’T write because I want to be rich, or famous, or popular. If any of those things happen, well that’ll be icing on the cake. But nowhere in my lists of motivations are there entries of money or fame. They tend to be bad motivations anyway.
In any case, whatever the reasons we write, the important thing is that we continue to write. I have a feeling the day I keel over, I’ll have a pen in my hand or be at my keyboard. It’s kind of a nice thought.