This weekend my wife allowed me to have “Bob Time,” which usually means I go somewhere and write. I normally meet with my friend Josh and sometimes Andy once a week, but sometimes you cannot fit all of the writing you have inside you in that short amount of time.
I went to my favorite place Schuler Books and Music on Alpine Ave and got a cup of coffee, an almond bar, a table and chair then delved into my writing world. Before long I had written out the scene I had in my mind then started wandering about the bookstore.
As I wandered, I was overwhelmed at the amount of books and was soon thinking to myself, why on earth am I writing at all. Hasn’t everything that should and could be said already been said? Why am I adding to the countless other books that lay on these shelves or in the dollar bin?
Sorry for starting out so philosophical on a Monday morning, but I’ve had this on my mind for quite some time and this is something I wrestle with. There are times when I am writing my story that I begin to feel like I am being unreal or fake, times when I feel purposeless in my writing.
I just wonder sometimes, why do I, and we, tell stories? Why are they continually written?
If you have time today, I would like you to answer the question: Why do you write? And to the non writing reader: Why do you read and share stories?