I am continually asked why I write, and I have really had to think long and hard about that question. It is difficult to answer because it is like asking someone why do you race bikes or why do you paint, etc. Their answers would probably be “because I enjoy it” or “because I can”. Both are similar to what I would say.
I write because it is a pleasurable experience—a creative outlet. It allows me to use my imagination; writing prose is my poetry, my song, my painting, and it is just part of my being; an extension of who I am, just like the canvas with oil is an extension of the artist. To me it is not rocket science. It is not difficult and I don’t ever think of it as work.
I remember in high school, I wrote English themes for football players in order to earn a little money. (Thank goodness all our teachers are dead!!) I would ask the guy what grade he wanted because if he were a C student, it would be too obvious if he turned in an A paper, so I would write accordingly. It was fun to try to gauge an A from a B, but I don’t remember it not working. Of course, no matter how dumb the jock, he never wanted less than a C+. Those plus and minuses were a little harder to hit!
Ever since those days, writing has been a part of every job I have ever had, and it is the reason why it only took me one semester to write my dissertation for my Ph.D. I have always been eternally grateful for the ability, and I feel truly blessed. There are many, many writers far better than I, but I’ll bet they don’t have as much fun.
Writing, however, is a solitary hobby or avocation, and I am an extrovert. That has often made me wonder about myself. I sometimes try to figure out why I do enjoy it so much, sitting alone for hours developing characters and plots and putting everything into a story. Then I remember as a kid how much I liked to play alone, in my own little world. Then suddenly, I wanted to be surrounded by people. I haven’t changed; I’ve only grown older, and I still like my little world, plus the people who are in it.