Note that I speak only from my personal experience, and nothing more, but on the subject of writing, I am deeply passionate, and truly love the act.I’ve read the works of the others having contributed to the conversation so far, and I mustadmit, I am humbled by their presence. I am not an author, or an artist, or even really a writer,so much as I am a storyteller. There is a difference, at least in my mind, as to what each does,and the goals they seek with their efforts.Mine is to elicit enjoyment from others. The greatest success I can derive, in my own mind, isthat others have enjoyed what I have done. I balk at the notion that I have anything to say thatwill change a persons view of themselves, or the world around them. I hesitate at the notionthat what I do is original, or for that matter, even meaningful.I write because I think I’d go insane if I didn’t. I sometimes feel that some people are born onlyhalf in the real world, the other half drifting through planes only glimpsed in dreams. Theyimagine worlds that are driven by the physics of what if, and why not, rather than what is, andshould be. They dream of other worlds, and they can’t help it. It’s who and what they are.The things I post here, my tales, are told because they are in my head, and to get them out,on paper, as it were, and shared with the world lets me breath a little easier. They have nodeeper meaning, often as not, and most are just furious keystrokes to still the voices thatinsist I listen.Now I do sound mad. And maybe I am. But isn’t that what it is to be a writer, to be a bit mad?To dare to dream of something that could be, when the world says it can’t? To live with onefoot in a world only you can see?In sharing, we share our dreams, more than our words. We share the most precious piece of ourselves, the part we ourselves cherish most, for it is, often, that which we define ourselvesby. We are writers, and we call ourselves such, because that is how we see ourselves. But inour private worlds, in our dreams, we are something more. We are the bridge to the other sideof the chasm of if, and we encourage people to join us, to look at the wondrous shades of maybe that we see.Writing is a gift, more than a talent, or even a skill. It isn’t even a rational action, or for thatmatter, an action that has reason. It’s something you feel. It’s something you need. It’ssomething you crave and hunger for. The sharing is almost a selfish act, really. Done for ourselves as much as others.Now I’m just rambling.Why do we write? Does there need to be a reason?
Storytelling seems to be part of our brains -- and yes, Keno, narrative does not = fiction.But Cain’s point is relevant -- all cultures make up tales, all children make up tales. We inventtales [some wild, perhaps] to express “truths” for which there are no “true stories.”