Why Do You Write?

Why do I write? I don’t know, why do you breathe?

All sarcasm aside, I write because I have no other choice. And I don’t mean this in the nice It’s-a-requirement-for-a-class-so-I-guess-I’ll-just-have-to-suffer-through-it sort of way. I write because if I don’t write, I get distracted. I start tapping my feet against the cold metal legs of my desk, I click my pen, and my seat partner starts shooting me death glares from across the aisle. Writing is my way of calming myself, of winding down after a long, stressful day. I find it relaxing to worry about the problems of the characters instead of my own problems. (Yes, I consider worrying a form of relaxation.)

I write because it’s a way of escape. It makes me feel better about my own problems. I don’t have to worry about my APUSH test tomorrow, or the fact that I didn’t take notes in Astronomy, or that weird virus taking up 4 gigabytes of space (yes, really) on the hard drive of my laptop because in fiction, every problem can be solved. Everything has a solution that can be attained with hard work, grit, and a little derring-do. Personal flaws can be remedied, and happy endings are meted out fairly. The good are rewarded and the bad are punished. Everyone gets what they deserve.

Real life isn’t always that simple.

I write because in fiction, I can pour all my fears and doubts and insecurities onto paper and no one thinks twice. My demons are the foodstuff of good writing. There isn’t another form of expression that so readily accepts the insecurities of the creator. I can put all my problems on a sheet of paper, tie it up with a bow, and say, “Look at what I made.” Why do I write? Why do you have the right to ask that question? Why do I write? Because it’s the only way I know of telling myself that things aren’t always okay right now, but someday they will be. Someday things will be okay. And even if they’re not, it’s only a few more chapters until my very own happy ending.