I, like all authors, write for many reasons.
A short list:
– I can’t not write
– Words and ideas are fun to play with
– Share a story that must be told
– Give life to characters who deserve to live
– An outward expression of inner struggles
– Provoke thought
– Create beauty & wonder
– Elicit emotions key to what makes humans human
– Make a space for dialogue on certain themes and topics
– Forge a connection—and maybe hit a soft spot—with readers
– [This list could go on forever]
All these reasons are a mix of selfish desire/need on the part of the writer, and a more benevolent desire/need to create a gift for others. At least, that’s my belief. With the amount of heart, time, energy, and life given to the art of writing, I can’t see how there can truly be any other marriage of motivations.
Beyond all this, in a personal confession, there is a more vulnerable and quiet reason why I write. This reason burns beneath all the other motivations. It’s the white-hot core that fuels and feeds the others.
I guess I’m confessing this because it is truth, because I recognize it, and because it offers a glimpse of the one behind he words.
The deepest motivation behind my desire to write:
To re-imagine my own narrative of identity and belonging.
I could deny it. I could (try to) hide it. But I really don’t know what that would accomplish? And, in the end, it feels like a good thing to know our truest motivation, embrace the hell out of it, and let it thrive.
Beneath all the others, I’m guessing we each have a core motivation.
Do you know yours?