Why I write?

My mind spins, unable to grasp on a single reason. Each piece I write brings a different reason bursting into my mind like a popcorn kernel in the microwave. Sometimes I think there are too many reasons. Other times there is not a single one in mind. Or maybe it is just hidden, a treasure chest hoping for a new piece of writing to discover it.

The one thing that has always been true is that I write because I need to. Barely tall enough to grab my colouring book off the top shelf and still believing that I was going to be a princess, I had to force myself to sit still as a kind teacher pointed to some letters on a blackboard and told me to write them. I have since used these letters to fulfil all sorts of requirements needed in my having a promising future. I write because, without it, my exam paper would be an empty page. I write so I can spell my name on an identity book application. I need to write to prove my existence and continue to exist in a world where a good existence is earned.

We all have to write. Some write more than others. Academics write papers to create theories, doctors write prescriptions to save lives, but writers write to write. Writers write not because they have to, but because they want to. There are many reasons why. Each reason makes the five minutes before putting pen to paper seem longer than the five hours spent spilling thoughts across the page.

I write as an educated person in progress, but I also write because I am human. I write because I think. I write because I feel. The spontaneous thoughts before falling asleep, the hazy musings on a long car ride would never see anything but the inside of my brain if I did not write. The knot in my stomach or the tug of my heart will remain hidden for none to know, not even myself. An introvert at the best of times, I write what I cannot say. In many ways, the empty page is my closest friend, my lover and my shrink, always ready to listen, never allowed to judge.

I do not write for a diary, clutched to my heart, locked from all eyes. Thoughts and feelings rise to my consciousness like bubbles to the surface of the water and run across the page like a river off the face of a mountain, my fingers dancing on the keyboard. I do not write just so my thoughts and feelings are on this page. I write because my thoughts, my experiences, good and bad, are in my head. Many remain in my head. I think about what I write about to find the meaning amidst all that which is cottoned in my consciousness. I write to share that meaning in a way I cannot with thoughts, or emotions, or even a diary. All in all, I write so others can read.

I write for the small chuckle in my mother’s throat as she read my first poem. I write so others can drink my bottled up ideas, thoughts and feelings. I hope to one day write in a way that makes them less thirsty. I write so that one day, my words will fulfil and enrich. I write because I choose not to speak. I write because it is both my talent and my biggest flaw. I write, not just because I have to, but because I want to.