I’ve been thinking a lot lately about why people write and the answer is I have no idea. The only one I can truly speak about is myself and my reasons change on a regular basis.
It’s much easier to say why I don’t write.
I don’t write to become famous. It’s doubtful that will ever happen.
I don’t do it to make a lot of money. Ditto on above.
It’s not even because I think the world needs one more romance novel, although if if by some chance I manage to produce a good one, I think it couldn’t hurt. More love, less hate — that’s what I say.
And speaking of saying, I’m not even sure I write because I have something to say. If you’re reading this blog, you probably know what I mean.
So, why make an already full life more packed by deciding to produce a novel? And then another one because the first one wasn’t all that good?
Am I nuts? Perhaps. I hate to admit it but I think I might be one of those people who’s only comfortable when there’s way too much to do and not enough time to do it.
Since I turned sixteen, I’ve either worked and gone to school or worked at more than one job or worked and had a baby and gone to school or worked and had a child in school. Trust me, the last two options were the hardest, even with a husband to help.
But, then said baby began to grow up and life started to get easier. This meant it must be time to complicate things again. I know. I’ll write a book. Because working full-time while having a husband who travels and a teenager at home isn’t enough to keep me busy.
Perhaps writing is just an excuse to get out of housework.
Or maybe it’s because deep down I want a fairy tale life and those only happen in — you guessed it — fairy tales. And romance novels.
So, yes, I guess I’m crazy, but not because I write.
Plenty of sane people write.
I’m just not one of them.