Why Write?

No, really. Why? What qualifies as genuine motivation to expend so much energy telling stories, regardless of whether they are appreciated? Over the years, I find that my motivation to write has shifted, and when I become aware of that shift I experience a little crisis of faith. Losing one’s sense of purpose in an activity is a recipe for a mid-life crisis. But aren’t all our goals transient over the course of our lives?

In 2008 I have experienced a sea change in my life, to the point that I marvel at the person I am becoming. Having married and found a job that pays well for work I enjoy doing, I find myself believing that I can participate in society at large, rather than hoping to be let in to the VIP section by way of a successful album or novel. The rewards are not so dramatic, but consistent and affirming. We forget how critical love is when we are cut off from it.

Last night I stared at an empty OpenOffice doc and wondered what to write. Drawing a blank is a common experience for writers, but there was a vacuum behind my eyes. My usual urgency to write, to express myself for all to see, had vanished. After thirty minutes of failing to even conceive of something to write (and this two days before the onset of NaNoWriMo), I closed the laptop and picked up a Borges book. Next to me, my wife worked on a draft of a story for BackFencePDX with agile fingers. Yet instead of feeling like a failure, I noted the relative peace in my mind: I was going to settle into reading a book of classic short stories by a master and not fret over whether I made progress on any projects. I was going to relax without guilt.

As silly as that sounds, it’s uncommon for me. I used to start bands in order to have the chance to parade in front of girls, hoping that I’d snare one for my own by dint of my loud guitar. It rarely worked, and when it did, I basically abandoned my band. Last year I threw a writer’s event and met my wife-to-be; the monthly event has faded, and I am now married. Perhaps the driving force behind my artistic endeavors is sex!

Well, sex is a sure thing now, so I need something less base to give me reason to share my ideas.

Ego gratification, perhaps, or the thrill of seeing your imaginary worlds in black and white on the page. Slightly less tacky, but not sustaining. I could write to contribute something important and substantial to our culture, as my late uncle implored me to do, but that creates a lot of pressure for every idea and word to Count, plus I have always believed that big ideas start small.

Yet I can’t give up writing entirely. It’s another world to me now, another building, say, where I’ve moved my mental offices and the paint smell floats in the air and the dust hasn’t settled. I want to take the plunge tomorrow and embark on a new journey… but in my mental office, it’s the weekend.

This isn’t a bad thing; I believe I may be feeling the effects of a balancing process by which my life activities reach an equilibrium point. But right now it feels like deceleration.