Why do we write?

...because, as always, my time is pushed I thought I'd update you with with another of my little tasks from my MA. This week was: why do we write? And, if you're interested here are my thoughts!

I was ten when I wrote my first novel. Gave it to my dad for posting to the publishers only to find it years later stuffed at the back of his office drawer. Of course nothing would have come of it – a scrawled children’s story with accompanying drawings – but that was not the point. At this age, I suppose it was just about enjoyment. I’d spend my Sundays curled up in the corner of my bedroom and I’d read for the entire day – I regularly devoured the pages of the Famous Five all in one sitting. But that was then and I wonder if it has changed? Maybe the reason I write now is more about my ego.


I write now for relaxation, to take myself off to a place that I have created. As I write I forget about the bills that need paying or the books that need marking and when I have finished it’s a sense of achievement. For the past five years it’s been my ambition to get published. Not a novel or a short story necessarily, but something. And as I write this I think why? Why is this important? What does it matter? I admit it’s about recognition; that in someone’s opinion my writing is good enough to be seen by others.

On the long drive home from Uni on Tuesday JB and I discussed this very question. ‘Why do you write?’ I asked him (him being a much more successful writer than I am) and we came to the conclusion that maybe it’s about mortality. We are mortal but the words upon the page are not. And this week, as I read and taught the more unknown poetry of World War One, I began to see that this was true.

I started a blog four years ago as a way to record the events of my seemingly mundane and ordinary life. As a teenager I kept a diary and this Is suppose is just a modern date extension of that – minus the endless tales of boy trouble and disagreements with my parents, of course. I write my blog whenever I feel the need. It’s used to get something off my chest or to just as an outlet for the words that are fighting to get out of my busy brain. When I write here there is no pressure, no deadline and no real reader and I like it.

I chose a job that allows me to teach and enthuse others about the joy of language. I write with the kids to show them how fun it can be to play with words and create something new. I love the rules of the spoken and written word and I love to flout them all the same.

For me, a sculptor is not a sculptor because of the end product. A sculptor is the person who spends time in the workshop covered in dust, full of ideas and carving away until they are content with the final creation. A writer is just the same. It’s not all about the end product. A writer is not the person who sits at a table in a book shop and signs copies of their latest bestseller to the millions. A writer is the creator; a sculptor of words.

And this leads me to my final thought: why would anyone not want to write?