Why Write?

I often see writers asking writers: “Why do you write?” When asked, my stock answer has always been, “Because the voices in my head make me.” This might seem flippant but in fact it’s not so far from the truth. After all, every writer I have ever spoken to speaks of the “voices in my head”. What these voices are, however, varies from writer to writer. Characters trying to find their way out, subconscious thoughts floating up to the surface, and the externalisation of an unyielding compulsion (my friend Rupert can’t half come across as pretentious sometimes) are just some of the explanations I have heard. Personally, I don’t know why I write. I just know that if I didn’t, bad things will happen. To me at least.

I first discovered the joys of writing at primary school. Most of my friends would spend the week looking forward to art class, an excuse to draw, construct, and generally make a mess. Some would look forward to physical education, an excuse to lose the school uniform, kick a ball around, and be outside. I, however, used to look forward to writing. For me, writing was an excuse to leave the school behind completely, sail away to distant lands, and embark on an adventure. Usually involving spaceships, time travel, and rampaging multi-headed monsters. Well, I was 8.

My teacher would set a topic for the week and we would be instructed to spend 2 hours producing a story based on the given theme. She would suggest we write a story set in a jungle. I would write a story about traversing the Amazon whilst fending off piranha, head-hunters, and still-living dinosaurs. She would suggest we write a story about a secret friend. I would write a story about an evil computer, Captain Nemo, and a giant, scaly octopus. She would suggest we wrote a story about what we did at the weekend. I would write a story about a day out at the beach involving buried treasure, rampaging pirates, and a fight with a monstrous sea serpent. You may see a pattern forming here.

At the time, the idea of writing something realistic, personal, and that didn’t climax with a hulking beast laying waste to the land would have seemed ridiculous. Still, my teacher didn’t seem concerned. If anything, she was encouraging. When I asked her if I could write additional stories, on my own time, she not only said yes but read and rated every single one of them. I don’t know if she ever came to regret agreeing to this, especially when 1 additional story per week became 2 additional stories per week ... became 3 additional stories per week … Still, I’m forever thankful that she did.

So, what compelled me at such a young age to spend so much of my free time writing? I couldn’t answer it then and I can’t answer it now. I suspect that none of us can. We do what we have to do, like eating and breathing and paying our taxes. Having written and published my latest novel (Amongst Demons, a terrifying story of retribution and revenge – available as an e-book and as a paperback from Amazon.com, by the way), what do I find myself doing? Do I celebrate the fulfilment of a lifelong ambition? Do I put my feet up and wallow in my achievement, happy and content? Or do I sit back down at my desk, pick up my pen, and begin the whole torturous process all over again? I’ll give you 3 guesses. And the first 2 don’t count ...

'til the next time ...