When asked why I write, there wouldn’t be a way in which to answer such a question with simplicity. I am knowledgeable of the fact that my youthfulness acts as an anchor to my experience as a writer but considering my interests lie heavily with this artform, this anchor becomes significantly lighter. Take my experience through highschool, though it being only a short five years of my life, it was enough for me to take on the challenge of becoming not only a better writer than I already am, but to become the best possible writer than I can view myself as in general.
Of course, I read, all good writers read. With reading, the time and patience put into such an activity awakens not only a personal satisfaction regarding the fictional realm by which I enter, but the subsequent desire to recreate this feeling of disconnection from reality with my own thoughts that manifest in my mind.
To me writing isn’t necessarily something therapeutic but more so a way to prevent my ideas from dissipating like mist into thin air when left to wander in the wind. To me, writing is a way to solidify my creativity so revisiting and elaborating upon preconceived ideas becomes easier than creating from the get go all over again.
In saying that writing isn’t a medium of therapy for me, I can assure you that this claim is partly false. Of course when I manage to get something down on the page, regardless of how profound or blatantly stupid it is, the fact I can pull it out of my head and articulate it, express it onto something physical, this brings me great satisfaction.
Overarchingly, through my own personal lens, creativity (while still valuable in it’s own right) is a mere pittance unless brought to light by the person who knows it best, with that person being the thinker who in the end becomes the creator.