You write because you’re alive. Because your brain is a singular specimen, but your heart’s on loan from humanity at large.
You write to pick a lock. You write to go somewhere green. You write because the battle between the heart and the head can be a silent, choking civil war. You write because it’s the one worth fighting, on all the days.
You write because for too long, you’ve been ashamed of the gap between the person you are and the person you were supposed to become, and the words are, if not a bridge, then a photograph in which the other you grows blurrier by the sentence, the paragraph, the story, The End.
You write because you’re a narcissist. You write because you’re self aware.
You write because sometimes you surprise yourself with the things you say. And other people seem surprised by them, too. And in the exchange of that shared surprise comes another flash of sparks: you are part of a chain reaction dating back to the Phoenicians, a small, if vital component in a rolling caravan of readers and writers, all hijacking the highways of literature’s nervous system, with no horizon line in sight. And if Shakespeare excites the highest hymns, an individual’s response can still evoke the infinite. And hey--remember--you’re alive and Will’s not.
You write because you are humbled in the sharing, made more by the transfusion. You write because your ego is often skidded, but never fully squashed. And eventually, when your skin has thickened into a callous-like armor threaded through with rejection, you write for something more than validation. You write--God help you--for truth.
You write because clarity is the golden ring.
You write because clarity is always somewhere else.
You write because you don’t know what you believe until you set it down. And even then, it takes endless trying to set it just so.
Right before it collapses in on itself.
So yes. You write as prelude to revision. You erase and rewrite because you can no longer pretend to be like Hemingway, bleeding through his perfect typewriter in that perfect Paris of a perfect past which no one was ever, actually, part of. So you write until the hemorrhage has a form. A body. Intention. Until it pumps with atomic precision. As something apart from yourself. Character. Story. With great mounds of flesh on its bones. And later, less.
You write to be reborn. You write, you write, you write.
You write because even a poem composed on a napkin isn’t worth the cost of a drink unless it’s got some iron and oxygen blacking its ink.
You write because the words are there, waiting on you. You fail to write when the fear blocks your way. You write blind--and deaf--to meet the words halfway.
You write because you want to live forever, and you’ve concluded there’s no other way, shoddy consolation that this is.
You write to beat back the sameness of everyday life, no matter how nearly perfect, or almost empty, life is. You write to keep a child’s vision. You write to play.
You write because words are your oldest and dearest friends. And sometimes, when you put them together in the most friendly fashion, they burst into song. Or even keep you up at night.
You write because you wouldn’t have it any other way. I should know.
You are an old soul masked in an adolescent's body ripping off the pages of a recycled diary and setting them to flame Before tossing the ashes in the eye of a lake and whispering your psalms through the pine-bitten dawn That Time is a phoenix with unfathomable wings