If you read these pages, it should be pretty obvious that I like to write.  Why I write is a question I’ve been asking myself a lot lately, and I’m having difficulty coming to a reasonably believable and simultaneously satisfying answer.  The truth of it is that there are many answers, but when I consider the implications of those answers the results are highly contradictory and/or unsatisfying.

When I started writing, I pretty much wrote for myself.  Writing was a chance to organize my thoughts and either deal with what was on my mind or divert my attention away from it.  At times, writing gave me the outlet and strength I needed to continue when I wasn’t sure I had enough in reserve.  It gave me something to occupy lonely hours sitting in hotel rooms while on business trips.  My writing was then, and continues today, to be predominantly selfish.

As a result of this selfish nature, I find it hard to justify spending much time writing.  There are so many demands on my time that it is impossible to satisfy even a small number of them.  Many, if not most, of those demands are grounded in service to somebody else.  Often family, occasionally friends, and sometimes strangers need help; and this type of service to others generally takes priority over my personal preferences.

I have occasionally tried to convince myself that what I write is of value to others.  To some degree, I view what I write as leaving something of myself for posterity.  Along the way, there were a few times when my longevity was in doubt, and writing gave me comfort knowing that my kids would have at least some insight into my mind if I weren’t around to see them grow.   However, what I write can’t possibly replace the personal experiences and interactions that compete for the time I would otherwise spend writing.  Justifying time writing as a service to posterity is a flimsy argument.

I have also hoped that what I write might find meaning in the heart of any random reader.  I want what I write to be read and enjoyed.  However, almost nobody reads what I write.  Furthermore, doing the things I’d have to do to broaden my audience would poison the well from which I draw while writing.  If I were to try to commercialize what I write, I’d quickly learn to despise it.   Writing for a broader audience doesn’t appear to be a viable justification for the time I spend.

There are a few other things that motivate me to write, but none of them are any more satisfying than those already listed.  In the end, I have to conclude that my time writing is mostly selfish.  I steal it from other worthy causes.  The question I have to wrestle with, then, is whether it’s okay to be selfish so I can fill that particular need within myself, or whether I should just drop this line of effort and let it idle along with so many other projects that await that mythical day when I can spend time on them.