Very few of us are born writers, I believe.
Two reasons come to my mind when I am asked why I write:
Respect: Ideas are rare and they come out of nowhere. If you think about it, it is almost a miracle. Something is created out of nothing. You never know which passing thought might be the seed for a great story. I want to pay my respect to the mysterious source from which ideas stem, therefore I write them down.
Showing up: Writing only works if you show up. No idea is complete, I never heard that someone “dreamt” an entire book or screenplay. If you feel an idea might work, you need to show up, and work on it. Every day. For months, sometimes for years. Showing up is a way for me to show that I take myself seriously, that I believe in me.
Here is an excerpt from a great book about writing that says it better than I ever could:
“I proved to my satisfaction that like any other mortal I, too, could write. But given that I wasn’t really meant to be a writer, all that was permitted me to give expression to was this business of writing and being a writer, in short my own private struggles with this problem. My grief, in other words. Out of the lack I made my song, very much as if a warrior challenged to mortal combat and having no weapon must first forge them himself. And in the process, one that takes all his life, the purpose of his labor gets forgotten or sidetracked.”
Henry Miller. On Writing. Edited by Thomas Moore
