It, I tell you!

If only. The writer’s nagging conscience—like a squirrel on the fence in the backyard, saying, “I got your walnuts right here, buddy!”—beckons. We got freaking beckoning consciences now.

(The writer takes a sip of coffee.)

The writer had decided, in this incessant column called “Why Write?”—that should better yet be called, “Why Read This?”—to write about the sheer joy of writing in and of itself, with no worry about all the stuff external to the act, the dwindling prospects of fame and fortune, the accolades and amorous adventures.

But … no.

The writer has decided that the pen, while perhaps not mightier than the sword, is at least something he knows how to use. (Never much good in a fight, our writer, discretion the better part of valor and all that.)

The writer writes to destroy the enemy.

Look around. Are there not enemies everywhere?

Who is the enemy?

The parental units? The humanoids who did not return your amorous interest? That dreadful POTUS ____ [insert name of despised politician here]? The editor who rejected your work? The other editor who rejected your work? The loathsome bullies from middle school? Those people who don’t realize that being a writer is a noble avocation?

Just then, the phone rings.

The writer answers, with trepidation, of course, remembering at that very moment the scary movie enjoyed as a teen, where the protagonist finds out (I think around the end of act two) that the killer who’s been calling on the phone was in the house the whole time.

It’s just like that. Our situation.

How so? Because, dear reader, we have discovered who the real enemy is.

“I am my own worst enemy,” the writer admits. The doubt, the apathy, the incipient carpal tunnel syndrome. “I’ve been in the house this whole time.”

Invite the enemy down for a nice meal, dear reader/writer. And then, when the time is right:

DESTROY!

The only way to get done with all this writing is to write it, my friend. I know you can.

All he has is the topic: [Insert topic here].

But in order to generate a piece of writing, an essay of sorts, he must have something to say on the topic. Otherwise, he would end up with an unconnected or disconnected series of words or sentences or paragraphs, or an essay on something else, or maybe even a recipe, short story, or philosophical exegesis. If he kept going, rambling on and airing his justifiable grievances against all and sundry, he might even end up with a manifesto. Now, that would be something, a manifesto, something one could touch with the (virtual) hand. But that is not what this is about.

This is about the act of CREATION.

The writer starts with a topic. He wonders to himself: “What do I have to say about [insert topic here]?” He begins to type. Sometimes, beforehand, he has made an outline, a list of subtopics, a map of where to go, a logical progression of ideas. Sometimes, all he has is a topic. What does he think about [insert topic here]?

Often it is in the act of writing that the writer discovers the point. What he thinks about the topic is created just as the creation comes to be created.

It is a very interesting phenomenon—this discovery through creating—which I am sure those of you who have spent some time writing will have experienced yourself. If you have not, I hope that you will.

But, as a call to action, what do you think about [insert topic here]? It might turn out that you have no clue what you think about it until you get to writing about it.

Have at it. Find out what you really think. Write!

Now that you have something, my friend, keep going. This is the only way to do it, that is, by actually doing it. This hypothetical man—who, in fact, is based on someone very like I, and so actually is not hypothetical at all—must write something down so that he can justifiably call himself a WRITER. So then, when he encounters someone on the street—

One moment. What’s up with these alleged street encounters? If I ever am walking near a street I am most likely on a sidewalk, as I assume you would be, if you are a rational person and not attempting suicide … but I digress …

So, when he, this hypothetically real man encounters some other person, probably not actually in the street, but near one, and this other person, who actually is hypothetical, asks the man:

“So, what do you do?”

I imagine the person asking the question has a sort of sneer, and probably doesn’t just have a job, but has one of these amazing things called a CAREER, for which this person worked long and hard and kicked tons of ass along the way to be a top-tier SUCCESS at said career. So, this person has earned the right to look a guy like our man in the eye—no flinching, no blinking, a bit like the old abyss or the blank page that is no longer blank, now, thank the gods—and ask, no doubt disdainfully:

“So … what do you do?”

He really doesn’t like this question, but many answers come to the man’s mind. Maybe he should be flippant: “Oh this and that.” Or maybe he should be a bit clever: “I think, therefore I am.” Or maybe he should be a total asshole: “I endure stupid questions.”

Or maybe, just maybe, the man—our man, our protagonist, perhaps, the one we are surely rooting for, c’mon, let’s hear it for him, even if he does suffer from something like main character syndrome—will muster up enough courage to say: “Oh, I’m a writer.”

Have the clouds parted? Has a voice from on high uttered “Behold!” in a lush baritone?

Maybe not, if we must answer such rhetorical questions. You see, friend, look at what sort of being is before you—ecce homo, as it were. This man has made an existential commitment, an ethical commitment, for he has expressed in words his very essence and declared it as truth by so doing. He has gone public. What do you have to say now?

It’s about time.

Why write? To be a writer. Get to writing, my friend. And realize your essential nature.