Why I Write

I write because words are wonderful and have a life unto their own which I wish to explore and participate. I write because it is they way in which I attempt to make sense of the world around me, and I have a sneaking suspicion that there are others who share this trait. I write because it is a way in which I can have an equal exchange of ideas with others without interruptions on either end.

I write because it forces me to pay attention to the world around me.

I write because writing is the last form of alchemy, when one can take ordinary symbols, combine them in just the right way and create something which is immensely more powerful, significant, lasting, and meaningful than simply the sum of its parts.

I write because God chose to communicate to God’s people through story and writing, and therefore there must be something significant to it.

I write because I have to. Without writing I cannot make sense of the world, and I cannot catch a glimpse of insight into what happens. Often times, writing feels like filling a lake by pulling up water, bucket by bucket, from a deep well. However, when that lake is filled the exercise of bringing up the water was certainly worth it.

I write because it helps me to be a better pastor and it improves my abilities to speak to and with people.

I write because I have more questions than answers.

I write, because I have a pipe dream of making a little bit of money writing, and I don’t want, at the end of my life, to be stuck with the worst question imaginable…what if?

I write because I think, perhaps too narcissistically (much like this post), that I have something to offer a reader, that my experiences are far from original, that in my reflections, others might find a glimpse of clarity, insight, or humor. I write because I want to share things with others, because life is meant for sharing. I write because in this sharing, others share their experiences and responses back to me.

I write to discover the world and myself. I write to remove skeletons from my closet and I write to uncover ghosts that linger around my desk. I write because it offers solitude without loneliness. I write because writing fosters connection.

I write because I find pleasure in spending hours writing and scrapping, writing and scrapping, writing and refining — agonizing to find the right word, many times not finding it, but when it is found, magic seems to happen.

I write because writing is the only way to become better at writing. I write because I love the craft of writing. I write because I hope that people will read and find meaning in my writing.

I write because the pen is mightier than the sword.

I write because in the end, it’s really all I have. I won’t have buildings or furniture that I have built or designed. I won’t have paintings or etchings that I created. I won’t have musical recordings; I won’t be remembered for leading a social movement of any sort.

All I will have for the sum total of my life is what I write: I figure I may as well make it worthwhile.

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