Why does one write?

I haven’t fared quite so well as I had hoped. The difficulty of writing for a living on someone else’s schedule (i.e. commercially) is always in finding time and energy to write on one’s own schedule afterward. Likewise transitioning from reporting the news to critiquing art and literature is a challenge of shifting mindsets, though it oughtn’t be so difficult for one who at least claims to love the subject matter and enjoys writing about it.

Which got me to thinking on the existential question, why do I write? The initial (written) answer is, because I have something to say that I can express better this way than through speech. (The initial thought was “for myself” but I know that’s much too simplistic.) Better because it’s more permanent, more conducive to thoughtfulness than reactive or emotional responses are, and because of how my mind has been trained to communicate (though I do think some of our epistemology is natural/intrinsic). All of that is true, and yet all of it misses the mark, because by a wide margin at least currently, I write because it pays the bills.

To be able to earn a living simply by communicating is a nice advantage of our leisure-based economy, that much I recognize. We have grown successful enough as a species in large part through the division of labor, which has allowed us to create a specialised class of workers whose jobs solely are to record and transmit information from its sources to its consumers. Much easier that way than relying on Joe Everyman to find things out for himself, let alone tell others what he’s discovered–aside from ability and credibility concerns, how many would even consistently undertake those efforts? From the standpoint of History, looking back to the days before the printing press when information was passed from town to town by traveling merchants or vagabonds, very few would bother. Most of us only care about our own small circle of influence.

Which brings me to my point: I write for the local paper of a small, insular community to which I have no ties, which means I write about them for them, within their circle. It’s information that they know, far better than I do, but these are stories that are important to them and that they need to tell, or rather to have told. As a card-carrying member of this particular class of workers, I knew that I would be a vessel for information, that’s the life I chose long ago and I do enjoy writing about other people, past and present, real and imagined. What I wonder though is, when do I get to write the story I want to tell?

To answer my own question, that’s what I need to use this site for, and use it for as long as it takes until I can write what I want, for myself, and pay the bills by doing so.