Herodotus wrote because he wanted to record the events of the recent past so that great deeds would not be forgotten. The Spanish conquistador, Bernal Díaz del Castillo wrote because he was annoyed by what somebody else wrote about men he knew and fought with. García Lorca wrote because poetry bubbled up and out of him, like water from a fountain on some sun-drenched Plaza Mayor… and Hemingway, you suspect, wrote at least in part because through writing he could live the lives of men whose manliness, courage or sheer bloody-mindedness he admired.
P. G. Wodehouse wrote because it was better than working in a bank. (I’m all with him on that one.)
But I’m not like these great people; I’m not a writer.
Nevertheless, I write, and I’ve been asked repeatedly why I write. Why I blog.
Well, the answer to why I blog is already on the About Me page and I’m not going to repeat it here; but as to why I actually write…
I write because I read.
I write because what I read – some of it, at any rate – inspires thoughts that I can’t always explore to the full with my family over the dinner table; I write because my friends live a thousand miles away and we never get to talk about books any more; I write because when I finish a book, my thoughts are often a confused jumble and I clarify my ideas by trying to give them a coherent form on a web page in the hope that others will read it and we can engage in a conversation about books.
And finally I write because this way I don’t forget.
(Written in response to the day 1 prompt of Everyday Inspiration.)