Why do I write?

I wonder what it is that makes people want to write? For me it’s the fact that it’s the only thing that I can do confidently. I think I’m quite good at it, and I don’t care if the rest of the world doesn’t agree. The things at which I excel are few and far between. I’m an OK cook, my speciality being Turkey Dinosaurs and waffles; I do Ok at the gym, as long as I don’t have to look at myself in the mirror either during or immediately afterwards; my kids are reasonably happy so I can’t be too bad at being a mother, except when I’ve got PMT, and I don’t shout or moan at Dave too much, mainly because he spends most of his time in different countries (no reflection on my wifely skills, I can assure you). But at writing I’m the best. Or typing, actually. My keyboard skills are far superior to those with a pen and paper, so I can subsequently get my ideas down on my laptop before they evaporate, which I struggle to do using the old fashioned notebook method. No, I could never have been a writer in the olden days, or even before I got this laptop for my birthday in June.

Yes, I’m the best. And I truly believe that, until I read a novel so good that I realise that not only am I lacking when it comes to vocabulary and sentence structure, but also characterisation and plot. And willpower, primarily the ability to stick with a story beyond two and half thousand words. So the answer is possibly to either stop reading completely, or stick to chick-lit, which I hate, but can confirm is written with very little skill or passion. Discuss.

Contrary to the opinion of my non-writing and largely non-reading friends, my desire to write has nothing to do with the fact that my kids are now at school and I’d like to make my fortune like JK Rowling, or EL James. As far as the latter goes, I’d rather chop my hands off than write anything as dreadful as that, despite the popularity of her books. No, I don’t think that writing is an industry you enter for the money. Maybe it’s for the telling of a story, which is obviously preceded by the creation of said tale. Yes, that’s fun. I love to sit with a blank Word document and just see what happens. It usually ends up totally different than what I intended when I started out. And that’s the fun part – when the story takes over and you become the conduit for what needs to be told. I don’t even care if other people don’t understand or like what I’ve written, as the joy is in the creation itself. I’m sure that many writers are driven to entertain others, as in the other arts. There must be a pleasure in seeing others absorbed by what you have written. There’s also pleasure to be had in discovering the myriad ways of telling a story. There are ways of creating an atmosphere just in the choice of words. But as long as I get that warm satisfaction from a piece of writing, then I don’t really care whether or not it gets lauded by the rest of the universe, or maybe even just the handful of souls who might happen to accidently find my blog (thirteen last month!), or who are forced to come up with some tactful response in one of my writing group forums. Of course, praise is lovely. But I can praise myself far better than anyone else can, and also fend off constructive criticism. Because I know that my superior intelligence makes me able to understand and appreciate literature that is just way beyond them.

So, in summary, I write because I am fantastic at it and it makes me feel good. Is there any better reason than that?