I write because I have a peculiar mix of ego and humility.
My ego leads me to believe that what I have to say is important and valuable, that my perspective is slightly different from everyone else’s in a way that makes it potentially illuminating, that I can say the particular things that I have to say better than anyone else can.
My humility makes me all too aware that, in the end, I’m not different. I’m just like everyone else. There is nothing special about me. And somehow that makes it very important that I express myself right: not stumbling over words or having to fight for speaking time in a room full of vocal extroverts. When I write, I can take as much time or as little as I want. I can throw words down on the page and be done with them, in a tumultuous burst of expression, or I can reflect and refine and revisit over and over and over until I have found just the right turn of phrase.
I write to be read. Casting my words out into the world, to be judged or completely ignored, is an act of hope.
I write in a sometimes desperate longing for understanding, in the hopes that my quirks and weirdnesses are perhaps not so completely isolating as they seem.
I write for myself.
I write to change the world.