I write because I read, I read because I write.

I write because my thoughts are a jumble, a rat’s nest of tangled hair and twigs and straw. To write them down is to straighten them out, to comb them into something beautiful and fluid and alluring.

I write because I can not speak. At least, I can’t speak in a way that expresses my true thoughts, not the way my written words can. The expectation in the eyes of a listener changes what I intend to say. The listeners interpretation of sound, tone and inflection skew my meaning. The written word is solid, dependable. The act of writing is more careful and precise than any conversation could ever be.

I write because how else can I record all these thoughts? My memory is porous and the only way to create any sort of permanence to my past is to write down as many of my thoughts as I can. To capture them in an ink and paper trap. Where they can never escape or disappear. Where I can keep them forever, unchanged.

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You try it, set a timer for ten minutes and answer the question: Why do you write?

14:365 Pen & Paper
Pen & Paper (Photo credit: mattbeckwith)

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