It is a strange thing, to write. To sit down and craft stories and poems, novels and plays, from the words we have spent millennia perfecting. So many have come along before me and said ‘this is why I write.’ So what makes my reasoning so different?
Quite simply, it is because I write for myself. I have never cared about the prospect of being published, and only recently did this become a tangible possibility. But the question still remains.
Why Do I write?
I write because the world is grey. People hate each other. Old men on golf courses devastate Middle Eastern nations with a flick of the wrist, then hit par for the course and go home to spend more tax dollars on pretentious bullshit. People attack others for the colour of their skin, or the God they worship, or the book they call sacred. Fathers hate their sons, and sons resent their fathers for leaving them a world that is so broken and torn. And through all of this hatred and anger and misery, we wait for the day that our planet will cease to be a blinding grey monotony, and will instead become nothing more than a ball of nuclear light, reducing the entirety of human existence to ash.
Even before the world ends, I find little joy in my own life, beyond that of writing. I am not a wealthy man. I am actually the epitome of the working class. I have very few prospects beyond that of back-breaking manual labour for the rest of my life. Around me, I see people with money, and I wonder how they got to be so lucky, and why I am apparently being punished. I wonder is there a God, and if so, why does he hate me? I wonder if there is no God, why do we even bother prolonging our lives?
I realise that I have thus far failed to answer the question, and will do so now.
The world, to me, is desolate and grey. I write to inject a splash of colour. To show love where others may show hate. To bridge the gap between fathers and sons. And to make the threat of a looming apocalypse seem a little less scary. In my world, crafted from ink instead of stone, the people are evil, and the good suffer, just as in the real world. But in my Inkworld, they have hope. They have the possibility to claw their way into a halfway reasonable life, whereas me, and countless others like me, cannot. That, I believe, is why I write. Escapism. I live through my characters. They fight unspeakable evils and experience the same pain and heartbreak as me. But I continue to craft them and make them suffer. Because they are stronger than me and they can rise above.
They give me a reason to get out of bed and face the world.
They give me hope.