Why Write?

Does there need to be a purpose to putting pen to paper?

Why do I write? It’s a question I imagine most writers encounter at some point - maybe even often. Maybe daily.

For many, writing isn’t a choice any more than breathing or eating is. Stringing words together in some meaningful way is nothing less than spiritual nourishment. It’s a simple act of existence. It’s why, when many days have passed without a post that I often have this need, this craving to write something.

But then I stare at the blank page and the question stares back at me: why do I write? And behind those four words, more questions open up like a hall of mirrors. Is there a commercial purpose to my writing? Am I trying to make a buck? Do I have a story to relate, a truth that needs telling? Do I want readers to do something? To be moved to act? Do I simply need to clear my head?

I tried to address this question in the very name of the blog. Thinking Out Loud, I intentionally called it back in 2011, with the goal of signaling to everyone, including myself, that this was my place to process the whole cancer experience. This was a blog for me. Anyone who wanted to could come along for the ride, but it was my space.

It’s not a clean dichotomy, though is it? If I was truly just writing for myself, then I’d write the words and file it in some folder deep in the recess of my computer for my eyes only. But I write it. I edit it. And I publish it. That act makes it no longer just for me, not matter how much I profess my intent.

In a couple months, it will be the five-year anniversary of my father’s passing. He died in February, 2020, just past his 89th birthday and right before the Covid pandemic broke out. Dad and I used to talk about writing a lot. We’d discuss our favorite turns of phrases in recent pieces, new writers, favorite writers. He was the one who introduced me to the New Yorker, and decades ago to one of my favorite writers, Calvin Trillin. His influence no doubt contributed to my love of writing and literature. As my career as a writer (briefly) and then editor progressed, he’d always ask for copies of anything I’ve written. Besides baseball, writing was our currency of conversation. In some small way, by publishing publicly, I’m continuing that conversation with him.

Not infrequently, as I give my draft posts a final read before I hit publish, I stop on a particular sentence or paragraph. I tinker with it for a minute or two, and think about whether my Dad would have liked it. If the answer is yes, I press publish.