Why I Write

I often see writers trying to explain why they write. They do it eloquently, gracefully. Look at Terry Tempest Williams's essay. (Tempest. What a fascinating name. Does it offer us a glimpse into her personality? But then, are we moulded by our names? I know people who are nothing like their names, many named after gods and qualities they never reflect :D And yet others who are their names personified. Sulekha. Good writer. She is. Mehjabeen. Moonbeam/Moon-like. She lights up a room.)

Tempest says she writes because:
http://www.facebook.com/note.php?note_id=502133944457

I think, I ponder, try to get inspired. I struggle and finally, I squeeze out a few words, about why I write, before I give up. For now.

I write to put my memories into words. I write to share my life. I write because it makes me happy. I write because it makes me question, it makes me think. I write because it is the only way I will ever express all my thoughts, everything I feel. I write to challenge my imagination. I write to tell stories. I write to tell you about my day, to cajole you into telling me about yours. I write about things that matter to me, about people who matter to me. I write because I like the sound of words, their taste, their feel. They give me company on sunny days, on rainy evenings and on silent nights. They surround me when I am alone; they protect me in a crowd. They float around me like dust motes in a bright sunny room, and I follow them with my eyes, frantically trying to commit them to memory, or to paper at least. They flutter all around me, make me what I am. I bat at them like a cat, try to pluck one out of the air and pin it down. It’s hard. Yet, I love these words. Words, do not float away from me. Stay close.