I’ve probably written why I write before, but it’s that time of year again. It seems to be some alignment of energy that is driving me to self-examination about who I am, what the hell I’m doing, and why.

In thinking about writing and writing about writing, I’ve developed greater insights into the complex dynamics of why I write. I’m still just descending from the iceberg’s tip, however. But writing helps me understand why I write. Posting about it gives others the opportunity to provide me feedback and insights, and they often help.

I write to understand what I’m thinking. That holds true through dreams, essays, business cases, white papers, theme papers, fiction, whatever you want to name, throughout my life. My thinking is fast and chaotic, like torrents of fast-moving water coming off of mountains of melting snow. Writing adds order and structure.

I write because I’m arrogant and love to read. Once upon a time, I read some mediocre science-fiction and fantasy, and scoffed, “Hah! I can write better than that.” I’m still trying to prove that I was right about that. But I also write because I admire the writers and their works that I’ve read, the people who grant insights into history, society, personal lives, technology, dreams, who imagine what else might happen, or could have happened. I envy them. I want to be like them.

Writing is much more challenging for me than it appears on the outside. That’s true of many activities, right? It depends upon where you want your activities to take you. I want my activities to take me to a place where others enjoy my writing as much as I do. But to get to that level takes discipline and effort in multiple areas. It takes an application of time, thought and energy.

Which is another reason for why I write: it’s a challenge and a pleasure. I’m a creative person. Writing provides an outlet and structure for my creativity. My science, engineering and observations may be wrong, but it’s logically consistent in my writing world. It is because I enjoy exercising my intelligence to come up with logical, consistent solutions.

Of course, the danger is that I’m writing in solitude. I’m in the cave, attempting to describe the world from the shadows on the walls cast by the fire burning behind me. I’m limited in what I see and comprehend, and I can’t know what I’ve done wrong until I let others see it. But I’m too fragile to permit easy access.

My writing activity is also addictive. My wife, family, friends and acquaintances appreciate that I’m an aspiring writer, and respect the time and rituals I’ve developed to write and pursue my dreams. The writing when it goes well, as it often does, boosts my self-image, as does the feedback I receive not just for what I’ve written, but for my dedication in trying to write.

Tangibly, writing becomes tremendously rewarding, especially fiction writing. There is nothing more satisfying to me than trying to understand, why the fuck did that happen and what the fuck comes next in the piece of fiction I’m writing, and then being able to conceive and write of those answers and end up with completed scenes, chapters and books. These endeavors deliver such a high when it all works out, and I sit back and congratulate myself for accomplishing something.

And that’s why I write, too. Because this is a complicated world where masses of people struggle and suffer in silence. Writing allows me to be someone more unique, someone who is managing to do something to help me rise above the morass of the common and ordinary. It gives me direction and purpose.

And that’s why I write, at least here, today, now. Perhaps someday I’ll manage to see more of the iceberg.

When I do, I’ll be sure to write about it.