It strikes me as curious that writing about writing appears a task more formidable than the base action itself–why is this so? To those readers predisposed to suspicion, know that I pose this question in sincerity. I suspect its answer, which we must approach with the infallible assumption of its existence (our pride runs infinite after all), would come most easily to one unconcerned with its discovery. Such is the nature of difficult things. And such a task do I set out upon now, though the path I tread holds still the gentle curves and wellworn marks of those who have come before. In these marks do I find comfort; in them do I glimmer hope.
Let us speak of purpose. More explicitly, let us speak of my purpose, as a self-professed (that is to say ‘amateur’ and lacking in all professional distinction) sociologist, lexicologist, philologist, historian–but above all as ‘author’, to whose final title do I firstly aspire. Speaking of speaking, I command you to speak, for I can guess already the sentence that lies on the lip of your lips.
Why do you write?
A common question (though mercifully less banal than its insipid cousins), and one of the few to which I possess an answer of some clarity. I write to escape, to make words sing and dance like shadows on the sunset, to tease my mind, to please my soul. I write for glory and honor. I write for prestige and respect.
But above all, I write for myself. We live such fleeting lives, search so desperately for meaning within its unknowable madness like blind pilgrims. To create one’s own meaning and to do so in beautiful language? A finer purpose I could not fashion, not if given a thousand lifetimes (and less so the pity that I have only one).
Why do I write?
What else is worth doing?