I came upon this topic on an email list a few days ago. I was going through some of my old college books and found Joan Didion's essay, Why I Write and was contemplating using this topic as the basis of a biography I need for another venture. Ah synchronicity!
So, why do I write?
I write as a hired gun, putting words to other's ideas. For my daily bread I am called upon to clean up the rambling technical verbiage of the overly educated or to put order in the brilliantly disheveled thoughts of executives. My task is to turn somewhat obscure concepts into easily understood documents. Watch me pull a rabbit out of a hat!
Why do I write?
As a child I was afraid to write anything on paper, afraid of being punished by my mother for having thoughts that didn't match hers. I wrote my forbidden wisdom on frosted windows sending it away with warm breath and a sweep of a hand. My contraband thoughts were painted with water on summer sidewalks, burned onto the night sky with lit punks and composed in the air creating a grand symphony of feeling. These are the words that will live forever, etched upon the ethers and fashioned in the heart of a child.
Why do I write?
I write to make sense of my life as it rushes indifferently by. Putting words to paper, or screen as it were, allows me to see the patterns and themes as they develop. I write to remember the events of my days. I have no record of my parents lives. I do not know who they were or what they truly thought. I write so my children have a legacy, a history to fall back upon.
Why do I write?
I write to learn about the world around me. And in learning about the world around me I always learn something about myself.
Why do I write?
I write to matter, to have meaning.
I write.
