Someone posed the question, and offered up a blog. “Why do people write?”
I read the article. It went off in all directions, and gave a multitude of reasons, vague, general, plausible, but in the end, it did not at all answer the question, for me. That alone might have been its intention; there is no answer. Still, I quibble with such a postulation, with the realization that I can in no way answer why everyone writes. I can only attempt to answer, “Why do I write?”
Back to any time where my synapses might fire on recall, I remember stories and their influence is present still. My mom read me stories…Booster the Hound, a most wonderful dog who ran off from home looking for adventure, got lost, and had a most difficult time finding his way back home. …Bessy, I’m a little messy, a delightful story of a young man who decides to repaint his wagon, and the paint gets on everything; yet the entire family manages to laugh and embrace his efforts. …Agnes, that was a more serious story of a young girl who died for her religion, perhaps a little over the top for a bedtime story, and it has stuck with me. The usual others, Robin Hood, the fables, et al.
In my pre-teen years I got into the Hardy boys, Nancy Drew, The Bobbsey twins, and a host of others, together with a myriad of comics, and of course the reading required by school.
As I branched out on my own, I moved to the latest best sellers, recommendations from friends and acquaintances, some such books worthwhile, some, well… The Happy Hooker, you judge.
In my latter years, I look for books that offer information, especially on the spiritual, and the science of the cosmos, ya, nice fit, hehe. And to get a break from there I eat fantasy books from the likes of the late Robert Jordan, Terry Brooks, Terry Goodkind, and a few new ones that have been recommended.
Any time I read a book, it changes my state. I enter into that special place created by the author. In a book about the cosmos, I might get lost in the perplexity of what is being said; or I might be in “aah” of the vastness and grandeur. I can touch the thinking of the author who I imagine is sitting at his powerful telescope scribbling all that information down, just so I might understand.
Oh ya, why do I write? Well, the obvious is that I want to tell a story that will capture the reader and allow them to enter a different state for a short time. I want to stretch their thinking and imagination to ponder situations that might offer a conflict to their usual way of thinking. I hope that everything I write gives a broader view of humanity. I want the reader to walk away, fully satisfied, and they have found the hero in themselves, for there is one in each of us.
I was so happy and relieved when Booster made it home, and I could tell he was as happy to see me, (the kid, Tommy, or whatever his name was) as I was to have him home.
Oh, one last thing. My writing will offer to those who enjoy an ethical and moral challenge a number of conundrums to, at a minimum, will question the notion of what is truly right and wrong. To that, I do not provide answers, my job is the story, you be the judge.