"Why I Write" Exercise

I write out of habit. I write because, if I don’t, eventually the urge to express myself on paper consumes me to the point of ‘ink-lust.’ It is a form of narcissism, I suppose, to assume that people will read your creation, but not when one writes with the intent to help someone, to improve their knowledge, or to challenge their beliefs. I write because I am often tongue-tied, and scared to say out loud what I say on paper. I write to improve my writing; like any skill, it is a muscle that must either be flexed and built, or let wither from disuse.

I write when I am unhappy. When one is happy, when one is perfectly content with the state of their world, they are often in no mood to write. Why reflect on the past, why contemplate the present or predict the future, when one has a full belly, a wallet full of cash, and a girlfriend on the arm? There is no point in writing then. One writes in search of hope, in anticipation that maybe, just maybe, one’s suffering may be alleviated, if not permanently then at least through the opportunity to share their feelings with others. I write because it’s the cheapest, most effective form of therapy I have ever undergone, next to running and other forms of physical exercise. I write in hopes of connecting with others, of seeing my own experiences reflected in theirs, and finding common ground to talk about, to laugh about, to commiserate about.

I write to reflect on what I have learned, to explore a subject, and to share that knowledge with others. Whether that knowledge is academic or general, layman’s information, If it is interesting or useful I desire to write about it. I write to acknowledge when I have attained a goal I set for myself. I write to chastise myself for my failures, and to plan my next course of action.

I write to protest against the injustices in society, to communicate to as many people as possible that there is, in fact, a better way of doing things. That there is a solution to a given problem, and to announce that, even if I don’t have the solution, I am working on one - to invite others to join my quest. I write to clarify, and to make permanent, my thoughts. I write so that future generations - or perhaps only future me - can look upon my mistakes and avoid them. I write so that my children, and my children’s children, will have something of a guidebook to help them through this thing we call ‘life.’

I write to justify that that my life has meaning, so that there are records of my existence long after my body has decomposed. I write in hopes of making the Beaudreault family proud. I write so that when I finally say something to them, I mean what I say, and so that I don’t say anything out of malice. I write to acknowledge that I have limits, but that those limits can be challenged, reshaped, or pushed back several paces If I invest the time and energy necessary. That’s what university is for, anyhow. I write to prove to myself that I’m not crazy, or that at least - If I am - that it’s a benign form of crazy.

Every act of writing I perform is an attempt, a ‘try’, to uncover some meaning from the trillions of terabytes of information that exist in our world. I write to sift through the data, to find order in what appears to be chaos. I write in order to marry the worlds of science and art, to show the artist that science, too, is beautiful, and to show the scientist that art is not trivial. I write in an effort to make things less ambiguous - the show people that there are, in fact, more certain things besides death and taxes. I write because I am an optimist, and I think that everyone has potential, no matter their current state.

I write because I am still recovering from addiction.