I’ll tell you why I write. I don’t do it because I want to, though I do enjoy it. I don’t do it because it might make me money some day, or bring me fame, though somewhere inside I hope it’ll do both. I don’t do it to prove anything to anyone.
I do it because I have to, because the stories bounce and collide in my head and won’t let go until they’re put down on “paper”. They burst into my consciousness and claw their way into every thought. The characters dance and twirl in my mind and I can’t make them go away until they’ve been committed to the electrons of my document files.
It’s like popping a painful zit; it hurts and sometimes it’s messy and disgusting, but you feel so good afterward and you keep hunting for more. It’s cathartic and disturbing all at the same time. It’s like spilling blood out on a page, flowing and spurting and draining you till there’s nothing left. But there’s always more, if you just wait for it.
That’s why I write, because I have to. This world isn’t worth living in if you can’t find a way to drain the excess imagination away. Better it’s used in something constructive that sapped by a flickering box filled with brainless actors.