Someone asked me today why I started writing. I was tempted to pull up my blog and say, here, read THIS. Of course, I did not. I’ve already addressed why I started writing, it was an attempt to control my life. An attempt to control something I felt was spiraling into the black abyss of averageness. (I love the phrase black abyss, by the way. I realize it’s a bit redundant, but I don’t care. I’ve used it elsewhere in my writing, but I can’t remember where at this moment. This may make my overall point completely off-base, you’ll have to be the judge.)
I think the real question is: Why have I continued writing?
Hmmm… Now isn’t that a doozy. I could simply say I enjoy it, which is true. I could say I have nothing better to do, which is basically true. Or I could say that once I started, I felt a pull, a compelling need to keep going, which is definitely true as well.
But none of those are the real reasons I continue to write.
I keep writing because deep down, I think I’m good at it.
Okay, how horrible is that? And vain. I know. But, I know myself well enough to know that I wouldn’t continue on a path I thought would lead to nothing. Again, read my first post and how many times I switched my career goals.
(OH! I just remembered where I used the term “black abyss” in my other writing. It’s in Chapter 47 of Twenty-Five. I hope this admission doesn’t make you seriously reconsider whether or not you want to read Twenty-Five, unless you didn’t want to read it before and now knowing it has such an awesomely redundant but kinda-cool-poetic phrase you do.)
I write now because I think I’ve found something I actually do have a talent for. I could be completely wrong. I hope I’m not. I normally don’t take praise to heart, but I’ve made friends based on my writing. People I never would have met or known have read and ENJOYED my book. Maybe I shouldn’t believe every word of positive feedback they give, but it can’t ALL be BS, right?
Since I graduated college, I’ve been wondering where all my potential went. I found it with a pen in my hand. And that’s why I continue to write.
I Picked Up a Pen One Day... 
I wonder why people always ask, why do you write? Why do you swim, why play football, why practise law, why cook food, why wear a red shirt? People do lots of things and we don’t usually know all the reasons why but we keep doing the things we like, or are good at, or earn us money, or kill boredom, or whatever and we try to stop those that we don’t like. That said, thanks for sharing your reasons with the rest of us. It definitely makes me think about all the reasons I love to write.
Thanks Cassandra! I checked out your blog and it’s amazing. You’re doing a phenomenal job. I can’t wait to see what else you post!
I started writing to change my father. I’m better able to express myself in writing than verbally. I hoped through story or metaphor I could get him to see truth. He died too soon.
I still write toward the same goal — to change someone, somewhere. To touch a life.
Thanks for sharing, Rachel.
corra
I forgot to tell you — I gave you a featured link on my blog. It posts the first few sentences of your latest post whenever you publish. Cool?
Ah, you’re such a sweetheart, you didn’t have to do that! I appreciate it, though! I haven’t had time since you posted your new blog to go and check it out in depth, but I’m hoping for a slow night at work… haha, thanks again!
I remember writing and reading at work. Ha!
Thanks Rachel. 😀