I was listening to a video talking about harnessing creativity. It didn't say much that hasn't been said before, but it did get me thinking about my own reasons for writing. It is, in a sense, a bit of a mystery: I can tell you I write because I want to tell stories and because I love books and language, but why do I want to tell stories? Why do I love books? Why do I find language such a captivating subject?
The question was, "What did the first frog say?" And the answer was, "Lord, how you made me jump!"
~Chesterton
The stories are just there. They pester me. They want time and thought and form, and it's my great joy in life to give it to them. A story appears and demands my attention, and it just so happens that that is what I love to do. I find no answer beyond my own actions; I simply do it.
Books, at least the written word, are my medium, and I can hardly put into words the way printed words make me feel. If I ever won the lottery, I would probably convert my whole house into a library. Here there is some explanation: Certain associations from childhood may have molded this love, but I can remember some fairly bitter experiences here as well as good, in fact some of my earliest encounters with books made me swear I'd never read anything ever again; it was only in my later childhood that I learned to love to read.
But just as the stories I tell come to me seemingly from out of the æther, and just as my love of those stories is something that merely is, so I find another love, an unexplainable delight in language itself. Every tidbit of etymology is my treasure, every quirk of grammar my delight. It is a struggle, the work can even become drudgery at times, and yet I can't escape.
I don't know why I write; I just know I do.
- Why do you write?
- When did you start writing?
- What was the first thing that made you say, "I'm going to be a writer"?
