An acquaintance recently asked me, “Why do you write?”
I gave him the usual answer: “Because I must.”
Ever wonder what Stephen King’s answer would be? I think the guy would be a nut case if he hadn’t been able to write. He’d be sitting in a rubber room, drooling and counting his toes. Writing kept him sane, or that’s my belief. Or maybe it kept him from being a serial killer. Or a psychotic crazy who turned people into lampshades, like Ed Gein.
So while that answer is true, it’s not all of it. Why do I write? Here are some of the reasons:
* Because it lets me live all the lives I never can.
* Because it allows me to be many people. Male, female, and everything in between, I can be them all.
* Because I can live anywhere I like, with anyone I wish to, and if I insist, I will be happy. The villa in Tuscany I can’t afford in RL? Done! The road trip to California on motorcycles with the man of my dreams? Done! Treasure hunting off the coast of Baja while mercenaries track my every move? Done!
* Because real life often sucks and writing lets me escape it. There are no unpaid bills or unexpected illnesses if I don’t want them there.
Writing is the gateway to everything I will never experience firsthand. I can climb Mount Everest, mine for opals in Australia, or find an undiscovered tribe in the rain forest. When I write, I am a god. Everyone dances to my tune, and I play so sweetly, the stars themselves pause to listen.
That’s why I write.