Someone recently asked me why I write. Just a casual question. Like “What’s your Starbucks order?” or “Do you think the apocalypse will be AI or climate-based?” And after initially wanting to answer with a vague “Because it’s cheaper than therapy,” I realized… no, this is actually a rich and layered question. So I dug deep—like, existential crisis at 2am with a half-eaten bag of trail mix deep—and here’s what I’ve got.
I write because I’m happy. You know, those brief 11-minute interludes between crippling bouts of depression? I try to catch those like fireflies and pin them to the page before they vanish in a puff of “meh.”
I write because I’m sad. And not like “my DoorDash order was wrong” sad, but “life is a meaningless conveyor belt of obligations and I haven’t felt joy since Obama was in office” sad. That kind. The kind where your keyboard becomes both a confessional and a punching bag.
I write because I feel like I want to live. Which, sure, is rare—but every now and then, I remember what ice cream tastes like or I finish a show without reading spoilers and suddenly I think, “Hey, maybe existence isn’t a complete dumpster fire!”
I write because I feel like I want to die. Not in a melodramatic Notes App suicide letter way, but in a quiet “what if I just… ceased?” sort of vibe. And writing lets me scream into the void without actually having to interact with other humans, which, let’s be honest, is its own form of self-care.
I write because sometimes I feel nothing. No joy, no sorrow, no existential dread—just the emotional equivalent of white noise. And in those moments, writing is how I poke the void to see if it blinks.
I write so that next year, when I’m inevitably scrolling through old drafts at 3 a.m. wondering why I ever thought bangs were a good idea, I’ll be able to see how far I’ve come. Emotionally. Spiritually. And in my ability to not send angry emails to customer service reps.
I write because I want to remember the good stuff—those fleeting, sparkling, borderline-mythical moments where everything wasn’t on fire—and remind myself it can get better. In theory. Hypothetically. With the right cocktail of therapy, meds, and adult coloring books.
And yes, sometimes I write in case I don’t make it a year. Because if I vanish into the abyss or spontaneously combust from awkwardness, at least my rambling, typo-ridden thoughts will linger in some forgotten Google Doc. My legacy: one-star Yelp reviews and a collection of emotional vent poems filed under “Don’t Read Sober.”
Because, here’s the thing—I’m an atheist. Which means I don’t believe in heaven, hell, reincarnation, or karma (though I do believe your ex will eventually date someone just like you but worse). So writing? It’s my immortality. My own personal hieroglyphic etchings. My desperate plea to the future that I was here, even if nobody ever reads it.
I write for the same reason the Egyptians wrote on walls: not for glory, or validation, or even relevance—but for the sheer, desperate nostalgia of being remembered. Or at least mildly acknowledged by future archaeologists, or that one bored AI who unearths my blog post in 2167 and decides, “Damn, this bitch was going through it.”
So yeah. That’s why I write. It’s not profound. It’s not pretty. But it’s honest. It’s messy. And it’s mine.
Feel free to chisel that on my tombstone—or better yet, just graffiti it on the nearest bathroom stall. I hear that’s how modern prophets do it now.