Why I Write

It doesn't get easier with age. It just gets more tangled.

I write to make sense of my world.

I write to force my mind to deconstruct an idea to its foundations. To go as far back to its origins as I can reasonably understand it.

I write to connect the present with the past.

When I connect, I attempt to evaluate nothing as inherently “bad” or “good”. I endeavor to construct an accurate reflection of causes and effects.

When I’ve built a chain of reasoning that illuminates why something is the way it is, I write to share my journey with others so they may critique, expand, and challenge my mind.

When I receive critique that expands my understanding, I demonstrate gratitude.

When I can’t discern emotional bile from constructive criticism, I discard it completely with prejudice. Just as I do not try to place the burden of understanding my ideas too heavily on those who read my work, likewise, I do not expect them to reciprocate.

Everything of consequence is connected. We are connected right now. But, often, I find the connections we have to our past, and through the complex interplay of our history, our reasoning, and desire, end up producing unexpected truths and outcomes.

What we see, I think, is never as it seems. I write to force myself through the pain of shining a bright light on an unknown menace, because it moves me forward.

I write to put some measure of permanence on ideas that increasingly disappear from my memory the older I get.

I write to provoke thought, and to interact with others who have authentic views and enjoy explaining them clearly.

Thank you for reading. I’m grateful.