There comes a point in time where every write, every Brother and Sister of the Feathered Quill and Inkwell, every tale weaver, every liar on paper, every storyteller musk ask themselves a question.
“Why do I write?”
After all, ’tis utterly useless to do something wihout having a reason–or perhaps a better yet, a good reason behind doing it. Other wise, ’tis naught but time, effort, and in the end life wasted.
So why do you write anyways? What makes you sit in an uncomfortable wooden chair, in the middle of the night penning the ravings of a madman? What makes you brood over a glass of whiskey, with fingers tapping away at a keyboard, writing about a fair dragonslayer? What makes you tell the tales that you do? Lies that any fool with any shred of common sense would have to believe if he were at all intelligent?
Why do you write?
I for one write–as narcissisitic as it may seem–for me. Aye, I write for mineself, and mineself alone. Mostly because a flying feather I do not give of anyone’s persona opinion about my writing (that may or may not be entirely accurate. I’m what one would call an “unreliable narrator”. Be ye mindful of the things I would say. Take them with a grain of salt, aye? Whatch out for plot holes, dear reader!)
The main reason why I write is so that I can read the story that I’ve always wanted to read. The story that I’ve always wanted to hear. The tale that has taken place somewhere in teh back of my mind since before El Shaddai brought me into this universe. The sotry I’ve been begging to read my entire life.
The story of a life beyond my wilest imagination.
The one no one has ever written yet.
So tell me, dear writer.
Why, do you write?