Why Do I Write?
Exploring the Deep Motivations Behind Why Writers Put Pen to Paper
I recently facilitated a discussion at the Kansas Writers Association meeting about “Why do you write?” I led with, “We do it for the big bucks all writers make, right?” Sadly, only about 20 writers in North America make a living from writing fiction. So, what really drives us?
I write to have control over something. In the worlds I’m writing in, I control who does what, who wins, who loses, and who gets justice. In a world where bosses control what we do, the economy controls what we have, and the administration in charge controls what quality of life we have, we need a place we can control. And it’s fun to imagine a punishment for a deserving soul without going to jail for it.
Years ago, my desk was in the basement. I went down there to be away from the demands of the family. Very quickly, our dog came into the basement to lie at my feet. Then one kid after another came down. One came to play video games, creating his own world under his (more or less) control. Then the two youngest came down, playing He-Man and She-Ra, G.I. Joe, Barbies, or My Little Pony. They were creating a sometimes-absurd world, but one they controlled. Then my husband (now ex) would come down to work on his model railroad.
The trains seldom ran on the tracks, but he created small mountains, a lake, and a town. It even had an elk and a bear. It was a really cool setup. He spent months creating it, aided by his best friend, who didn’t have room at his house. Then the friend was killed in a freak head-on collision. I’m not sure my ex ever recovered from the trauma of the loss. Soon after, he dismantled the train set, tore up the mountains and the roadways, and boxed up the trains and buildings.
And yet, that control is illusory. Sometimes the characters we create take on a life of their own. I had to come up with a new ending for What the River Knows because the character I had planned as the killer refused to do the deed, leading to another character taking over and giving the plot an intriguing twist.
Some members of marginalized groups write to give structure to the happy endings they can only dream of. Some write to purge past trauma, such as divorce, the death of someone they love, or violence. Some write to get justice for a wrong done.
The voices and movies in our heads sometimes seem more real than the world we live in. They talk to us, even when we don’t intend to listen to them. Once, when I was walking (being walked by) our Labrador retriever, Bart, who is the subject of “Diary of a Wimpy Dog,” I noticed a haze hanging in the air. “Hmm, wonder if that’s smoke or dust.” Before I even completed the thought, a character from a book I wasn’t sure I was going to write said tersely, “Dust settles, smoke rises.” Okay, then, I guess it was dust. Until my firefighter son told me about heavy smoke. Ruined a perfectly good story.
I can’t not write. The characters and storylines wander around in my head, waiting to be given life on the page. The notes and ideas scream from my file folders, “Pick me! Pick me!” Finding inspiration for what book to write isn’t a problem. Finding the time to structure and plot is.
But the real reason I write came to me shortly after the death of my fiancé. It brought home to me how fleeting life is. I realized that my kids, grandkids, and friends will have to go on without me one day. It’s inevitable. But no one knows, no one else can give voice to, the books and stories I want to write. Any untold stories will die with me. It’s not likely that my books will be like Tom Clancy’s or Frank Herbert’s, where other people will continue the characters and storylines. No, I have to be more diligent about getting the stories down, despite the cat lying in front of the monitor and the dinner being cooked by my partner in the kitchen. Yes, I know all too well that he will have to go on without me, or I without him, one day, though the cat might outlive us both. But until then, I will write.
