I guess I write for a multitude of reasons, many of which are unconscious and indescribable to me, or, in other words, internal motivations that arise in an unknown location inside of my mind. I know that much. You often hear writers say they can’t present a bullet-pointed description of what compels them to write, that writing comes about when you feel like it is something you must do against all else. My experience speaks to me in this same tone. It tells me not to question the writer’s impulse, but only to investigate it. 

There are, however, many unambiguous reasons that I write. They are actually quite clear. The foremost reason is quite simply one of enjoyment. To be clear, it is the enjoyment of having written something rather than the process itself. Writing itself is an awkward enterprise for me and I am routinely unclear of where to go next when my eyes see the white page, wordless and staring back at me. But there is something undeniably satisfying about seeing that same page colored with text and words, all fitted together into sentences and paragraphs intended to express something I view as relevant and important. 

David Foster Wallace has a quote germane to this discussion, as I think it describes the writing experience perfectly: “How odd I can have all of this inside of me and to you it’s just words.” 

Clearly, while this quote seems to suggest words don’t contain sufficient meaning to describe the internal happenings of our psyche, I think it only reflects the fact that words do translate the human experience more accurately than any other art form, imperfect as they are. It is only the truth that we wouldn’t feel the gut-punch of Wallace’s words if they didn’t actually communicate the way he felt, which is, misunderstood and helpless for a medium of contact. If he didn’t express that his feelings did not directly relate to his words – through his wording – how else could we access such information? 

This is the trick of pure literary talent (which Wallace was a deserving representative of), but it adequately expresses the point before us. The beauty of language is the beauty of expression. Instilled into us are particular languages of which we have free use, and to writers, this is the most cherished promise of writing. Bending language to our will is the unique skill of humanity, for what do we have if not the capacity to use our words? 

I started writing to instantiate myself, if you will. Writing forced me to find out what I believe and who I am. Without this mode of communication, I am lost among the many and stranded to search for myself through the crowd. Jhumpa Lahiri said it best in her description of her purpose writing: 

“Ever since I was a child, I’ve belonged only to my words. I don’t have a country, a specific culture. If I didn’t write, if I didn’t work with words, I wouldn’t feel that I’m present on the earth.” 

So far, what I have outlined is applied to writing in general. My more journalistic/opinion-based writing has a direct and clear purpose. I despise injustice, suffering, hate, bigotry and prejudice. I care about how people view the world and how those views impact all of us in our lives. Like Kurt Vonnegut, “I want you to stand as close to the edge as I can without going over. Out on the edge you see all kinds of things you can’t see from the center.” 

In this way, writing is an intense exercise of learning. When I set out to write a column, especially if it is related to politics or some other subject that usually brings vitriol and critique, I approach an issue with the hope of learning something and that, by virtue of gaining knowledge, I could help others in their search for truth. As one of my favorite authors James Baldwin noted: 

“When you’re writing, you’re trying to find out something which you don’t know. The whole language of writing for me is finding out what you don’t want to know, what you don’t want to find out. But something forces you to anyway.”

In sum, I write because, like all other humans, I am in a constant struggle to recognize and place myself in a certain place and context. Writing, both personally and publicly, through both fiction and nonfiction, allows this process to unfold. As I stated previously, writing is anything but easy and I have exhausted massive amounts of effort to do it, but I indeed believe it is my calling and I do not consider the time I spend writing to be time wasted.

I hope through a brief view into my motivation behind writing, others might wish to pick up the pen themselves and attempt the form. With patience and confidence one can begin to put their thoughts on paper. I also want to qualify this piece and state that I do not believe I am a great writer, or even a good one. I am simply someone who does what makes them happy. 

Is there any reason needed to explain?