I have to admit I’m always surprised when I come across blog posts written by fellow writers titled “Why Do I Write?” or something along these lines. It’s a popular topic amongst writers for some strange reason. But no matter how many times I come across this subject, I’m still confused. It’s never occurred to me at any point in my life to question why I write and I certainly don’t feel compelled to justify my obsession to anyone else. So, am I missing something here … or are they?

I’m a writer. I write. It really is just that simple. In my opinion, a more appropriate question to ask would be “Why Shouldn’t I Write?” and maybe my readers are more equipped to answer a question like that than I am. (Her grammar sucks! She can’t spell! She can’t put together believable characters or an intelligible plot to save her life! Her stories are going to cause the destruction of society as we know it!) Fine, fine. I get the idea.

But the point I’m trying to make is that really … I don’t care. Maybe you have your reasons why I shouldn’t keep writing and maybe they are justifiable and maybe they are not. But is that going to stop me from writing? Heck no! I’m a writer, remember? I write. I eat, I sleep, I dream, I breathe, I write.

I’ve been putting words on paper for a very long time, pretty much since the day I discovered that I could and that those words could actually affect people. If I had to pinpoint a moment, I would drag you back to the fourth grade with me. Imagine nine year-old Stephanie on the playground with a small group of girls. For whatever reason (and I don’t remember how it started), we decided to create our own play. Our teacher, Mr. Nega, was so impressed (or amused?) with the idea that he allowed us to perform the play in front of our class during actual class time.

I’ve never been the outgoing type and truth be told, I think I made my way through my entire school career barely saying a word so I wasn’t bound for a career in the performing arts. But something about putting those words together, seeing a story form on paper, and then enacted for a group of people who could react … that made something click. I don’t remember many things from my days in grade school but I will never forget that moment.

I wrote many more plays after that, none that were ever performed in front of a fourth grade audience, or any other audience for that matter, but I kept on writing anyway. Why? Because I had fallen in love, desperate, unavoidable, undeniable, unchangeable love. Because I’d discovered I was a writer … and I write.

(Of course, there was the Mother’s Day play that my best friend down the street and I created together as a present to our moms. We set the story around an Olivia Newton John album that we both liked and I’m sure it was a grueling experience to sit through it but our mothers happily indulged us anyway. Thanks, Mom!)

Grade school came and went. Writing didn’t. Junior high and high school came and went. Writing became an even bigger obsession. Now it wasn’t just plays anymore. Now I wrote poems, journal entries, short stories, and letters to pen pals! Now I wasn’t content to just write in English anymore. Now I wrote in French and Spanish too, at least as much as my limited vocabulary in those languages would allow me.

Really, I should be sent to writer’s rehab. As you can see, it was becoming a problem. And it still is.

I filled volumes in college. (It would probably be painful to read them.)

I’ve never questioned why I write. I’ve pondered the possibility that my stories will never really be worth reading or well-received by others but even that isn’t a reason to stop writing. I am simply bound by a love affair with words that is never-ending. Since I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m too lazy to go back to a life of working in the corporate world, then I guess you’re stuck with my writing a little bit longer.

So, what about you? Do you define the reasons why you do what you love?