Why do YOU write?

I know why I do and the reasons vary from just having to get it off my chest, all the way to my trying to change the world for the better. I know, I know; melodramatic, much? But it’s true. Deep down, we all hope our words will hit home and help “some strange brother or sister” (to borrow from Bukowski again) in, at least, letting them know that they are not alone. And, in reaching out from a deep-rooted hope that we are not entirely alone, we make connections with all types of people we’ve never met and never will.

I think we sometimes write out of a hope that our words will live on after we go; making us immortals of the Mark Twain and Ralph Waldo Emerson (even, Poe) variety; likewise legends of pen-to-paper.

Either way, relating to our fellow man, for a dream of the occasional instance that these words we slave over will reach them feels like the truest genesis of this (sometimes) art form. Even when we’re only blowing off steam, we are putting forth our selves; our very most vulnerable and heartfelt, earnest selves to be tested and tried, by the rest of humanity.

So, I ask you, why do you write? It remains, to me, the boldest sort of wager.



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