I write because I can’t sing, dance, or paint. But that doesn’t really answer the question. It merely poses others: Why do I want the limelight, the center stage? Do I write from a sense of superiority, demanding I be heard? Or, do I have some type of inferiority complex that requires validation? But wouldn’t inferiority command that I hide in a corner? Does the coward charge into battle, leading the brave as a stratagem of deception? Are the coward and hero one and the same? Does the writer prefer anonymity, play-acting as a fictional character? If it was simply that I house a supply of stories, then why is contriving them so difficult?
 
That’s being stupid, all three philosophies.
 
Consider this: Talented people possess an overwhelming desire to create and to share. But is that true? Is it possible that the most gifted artist, in any field, sings only in the shower, so to speak, or constructs fantastic sand castles at water’s edge during low tide? Or might a hairy mole at the tip of one’s nose be the cause of the potentially preeminent artist’s silence? Self-consciousness prevailing over all else.

But why do I write? Do I have something to say? Do I have an overwhelming desire to create, or to please an audience? Or, do I possess such an inferior nature that above all else, I demand to prove to the world the contrary, seeking aforesaid validation? The coward leading the charge as if should I not, I may turn and run?
 
Is writing merely psychotherapy? The therapist urging – “Bare your soul. Let me feel the bite and taste the tears – and watch you run.”
 
Publishers, agents, and submission rejecters may not be the final arbitrators, as fickle as they are known to be. The superlative-shower-singer picture may be inapplicable, as well. The world will never know. Maybe the coward should join the proverbial French Foreign Legion, seeking the opportunity to lead a charge.
 
“What are you writing?” – “Kindling … fire-starter,” I answer.
 
Author David McCullough quotes Paul Weis, a Yale University professor: “I’m not as bright as my students. I find I have to think before I write.” Personally, that terrifies me, in that were I to, my pencils would join the burn pile. When I really stop to think, I move on to another activity, something more productive – like raking leaves. It’s as if the concept of exposing inner, gut-level thoughts is terrifying. “Well you don’t have to show …” you say. But then you’re left with one dimensional tripe.
 
Myself, maybe I’m a toddler insisting that I run before I can even walk.
 
Perhaps I’m afraid of death, possessive of an overwhelming desire that something of me lives on. Nah, that wouldn’t explain youthful scratchings.
 
So why do I write? Maybe you should ask kids why they swing. “Because it’s fun.”  It’s as simple as that.
 
 “Hey, Mom! Watch this! Look at me now! Over the bar this time.”