Terry Tempest Williams wrote about “Why I Write” whereupon she lists many reasons:
Writing helps us to make sense of the world, to uncover things that are unknown. It can lead to a story of discovery, to create words in a void and to begin the conversation.
She asks: Why do you write?
It is just after 5am. I was dreaming about the old house by the sea, Nikita was there, and we had an Alsatian dog, Bernie, who we were taking for a walk. I put on my gloves, warming my hands and we made our way to the food shack; a small hut at the end of the walk along the beach, serving hot food. Their homemade lentil soup is the best. Comfort served with no bells or whistles in a polystyrene cup.
The snowfall began just as I had started reciting why I write, snowflakes on our coats, on our eyelashes and in Bernie’s mouth as he licked the wide open space; he loves running along the beach, into the water, fetching his ball, collecting sticks.
I write to free the words, the images in my mind to create meaning in the world. What is your reality? Is it the same as hers? What about his? I write to try to make sense of what motivates the murderer, the narcissist; to give a name to nameless people, a voice to the voiceless, to understand why they wait in the shadows for us to join them. I write as a way of travelling to the past, remaking the present and entering the future. What would it be like if? What would have happened in the past if? What if everything we know about our past is built on the graves of those who were slain for knowing the truth? And wonder who has tampered with our reality, a questioner, a non-believer, homeless, wandering in the dark.
I hunch my shoulders and put my head down as the wind whips the snow and it falls ever harder. Nikita’s rosy cheeks are sometimes my only joy in this world and her eyes sparkle with the bright light she was born with. I write because this is the world I want to see.
I write because there are more answers and more questions than will ever be uttered. I write out of ignorance of what some of those answers are. I write because a blank page will haunt me and that in the dying days, I will say, I wish I’d left fewer blank pages in the world. I write in the morning in dreams, I write in the evening sipping hot chocolate. I write knowing there is failure in every word. I write with the optimism of one who doesn’t know when to stop.
And breathe.
Why do you write?
Postcards from the edge 