Why I write

For those of who feel compelled, drawn and inspired to put pen to paper (or fingers to the keyboard), it’s useful to revisit why we do what we do – especially if/when those inevitable moments strike of feeling stalled, frustrated, defeated or doubtful.

Understanding, refreshing and remembering our intention and our motivation can set us back on track. I do this often myself, occasionally revising previous mini-manifestos that I’ve written to myself and the notes I gather in my own hand as well as via the words of others. Notes that remind me that this work matters, principally to me, and then if it becomes something that I feel is worth sharing in the interests of my short answer – which is I write because I care.

I encourage the writers that I work with to do the same.

And when I say writers, I mean anyone who writes for whatever purpose, whether that be an outward facing desire to say and share something meaningful via the various modes of communication available to us these days (hopefully for better rather than worse, where worse is adding noise to the clamour where ill-intentioned or hasty words cause harm), or the pursuit of clarity for one’s own delectation.

I firmly believe and encourage others to consider the same, because our words have immense power and potential. What we say, how we talk to ourselves (on the page and in our minds) and others can have a profound impact on how we perceive and respond to people, experiences, and the wider world and life in all its complexity and wonder.

I have always written ever since I could, which was about the age of five, gleeful nonsense though that might have been. I write for the same reasons that I write, that I listen, that I converse and that I daydream – out of curiosity about the why, what, how, where and when of all sorts of things. This is what drew me to work in journalism many moons ago, and continues to move me still.

It’s the sense of wanting to inquire and understand, more than the search for absolute answers or certainty. In fact, I think the latter can lead us into a trap of rigid thinking and limiting views, closing more doors than it opens. Although of course, it can be a survival as much as a socialised instinct to find firm footing and reasons why people are the way they are and things appear as we find them.

But when it comes to nurturing and nourishing our individual and collective creative wellbeing, of keeping our hearts and our minds open as well as humble, I find it far more interesting, illuminating and enlivening to appreciate that there is so much I don’t know or understand – a perspective which is a portal to endless possibility.

When I write (which is a process that starts before I even reach the page or the screen), I am looking for something, for sure, but what it is, and what I find, I’ll not know until I get going. And that’s what writing does for me – it sets me on a course, and continues a path of exploration, which is what I think and feel life to be; a continual unfolding and unfurling into deeper and more nuanced understanding.

I write because I want to find the hope in the dark, the crack in the membrane, the tears behind the frown, the gold in the dirt, the blood in the stone, the heart in the devil, to understand what and why we humans do what we do.

The markers of that, in the case of the stories I’ve explored in my own ancestry as well as the people I’ve worked with in my various capacities and roles in communication, often lead me to appreciate the infinite causes and conditions, triggers and consequences, that make up life’s rich and perplexing tapestry.

Like I say, it’s about caring to ponder, to cultivate and invite compassion and relatability. All of which I’m glad for. In the human sense, just as equally as in the quest to unpack and explore ideas, to write is to wonder and wander.

When it comes to inquiring into the nature of my own mind, I write (in the form of free writing, reflective writing or contemplative practice, whatever you want to call it), because I want to hear the angel on my shoulder speak and writing with abandon to let another voice break through the clamour and say, hey, this is it, this, not that. But to get there, to this, I have to work through that, break through to this.

The blank page is an invitation. It’s a place and a way that I figure things out. A safe, brave, private space where I can vocalise all the things I might not otherwise say, or which I might but in a kind of haste that might lack the processing that lends clarity.

Writing brings me closer to reality, it helps me tend and attend to what I feel, see, witness, think, and shows me often what I’m missing. There’s an immense satisfaction to it – to gather the disparate thoughts, to catch the ones that stay, and free up space by getting them down and out.

To write is an act of creativity, release, commitment and awe. Not that my words always reflect that, but they do carry that intention. Sometimes they’re garbage, compostable waste that through the process of digestion and elimination, makes space. Because when I’ve worked the muck out, as in worked it out of myself if not worked towards some kind of resolve, I am a little lighter for it.

It doesn’t always come easy, other times it does. Either way, if I give it time, if I commit and pay attention, something comes that’s of use to my process. It doesn’t matter whether or not it gets read or applauded (although of course I care that it might). It matters more that I get it done and that I (and that we) keep going.

The words, the making of them, shaping them into sentences and combinations of randomness made real and sometimes lucid, brings me immense satisfaction, possibly more satisfaction than anything else.

Before I even considered the why, I always knew I must. I lust for words, thirst for them, am hungry for them. And when I don’t do it, I am unsatisfied by anything else.

I like how words look on the page. I like the feeling of placing them there. It’s an act of conjuring, of magic that makes some kind of sense to my spirit, where spirit is to breathe life into a space where before there was a yearning.

I honestly wonder how I would live without writing. It’s how I think. It’s a desire as much as a compulsion; I want to do it and I must.

Now you, your turn ...

Tell me why, why do you feel drawn to words, to read them, write them? Tell yourself, remind yourself, why this whole game matters. Because it is a game, a delusion, a reality of our individual and collective making. This is one way we take control, exercise agency, create something out of nothing, from all the stuff that makes up our lives. It’s how we make sense of it all and find hope in the dark as well as glimmers in the dust.

And if you’re not sure, or you want to explore with the benefit of some loving guidance and nudges in possible directions that might lead you to wherever you wish or need to go (or perhaps places you didn’t consider before and might take you elsewhere)...

I can help

Show Up is a weekly online writing circle where you're invited to show up for yourself, in community, to the page, with guided prompts and inspirational readings to help you inquire into and find your personal expression. We meet every Thursday. You can come and go as you like, and I offer a sliding scale so that people can pay within their means.

1:1 Mentoring: if you're a non-fiction writer, academic, memoir writer or essayist with either a piece of work in draft or an idea you need some help turning into reality, I offer tailored developmental and editorial support.

'Til next time, fellow wonderers, wanderers, thinkers, readers and writers - it matters, we matter, make it so.