“Why do you write?” someone asked me.
I took two minutes to give them my pat answer, which has to do with books and stories having practically raised and educated me and, above all, comforted me, and how, as “we read to know we are not alone”, I write in order to reach out and let others know that they are not alone.
I think this is a good answer and it is most of the truth, too. It is a good motivation and something of a protection against getting sucked into oneself as a lonely artist.
However, I always feel slightly smug when I give that answer – yes, check me out, I’m “ethical” and I “care about others” in my writing. There is another side to the story.
Writing is a drug. I don’t know how, but the magic of creating and (especially) finishing something is a far-out natural high of an experience, a euphoric hit that pings the reward mechanism in the brain.
At the end of the day, I write for pavlovian reasons; I’m just a poor addict.
- I Am Writer (tymothylongoria.wordpress.com)
- The hard work of writing: in brief, it’s damn hard (conqueringthealphabet.wordpress.com)
- Do You Believe in Ethics for Writers? (rjmedak.wordpress.com)