Time to time, I'm asked why I write. The question used to annoy me without understanding the source of my annoyance. It was probably that I had no answer for myself and didn't need anyone else pressuring me to explain. Of course, they weren't pressuring, that was all me. People were merely curious or just trying to be polite.

There was a time I wrote to build an audience (even if I didn't want to admit that desire). I even toyed with the idea of writing freelance as my job. And I write prose poetry with an eye toward publishing and (I'll admit it now) dream of some amount of fame. All of this is one form or another of hoping people will like and approve of me. But even that desire doesn't account for all the notebooks, the blog entries, the millions of words I write.

So why am I writing?

I guess I'm used to it. I've done it for so long without a sense of purpose beyond filling pages that this is just what I do and maybe who I am. I enjoy it, sure, but there's something more and less than joy involved. I'm so accustomed to writing that I just write.

There's no denying that I imagine a reader (or a few million) following along, breathless in the face of my genius, but even without that, I keep writing.

I'd like to think the reasons are beyond understanding, but it's probably not that complex. I see a blank line, have ink in my pen and time on my hands. I know what to do, Moving the pen comforts and excites me. One line leads to two. One page to three or four.

Ask me why I'm writing and I may say, “because that's what I do.” It doesn't seem like much of an answer, and you're probably just asking to be polite, but maybe it's as profound an answer as anyone could ever give.