Why I Write

Michael Kensak, Joel Westerholm, John Vonder-Bruegge, Daniela Cambetas, Ann Lundberg, Dan Daily, Barbara Turnwall, Heather Josselyn-Cranson, Robert Hubbard, Scott Monsma, Karen Barker, and my mother. Each one believes that composition is a step on the road to comprehension; each one expects something of me. I’ve always been obedient. I write because I am asked to write.

I had to write well in grade school in order to advance to high school. I had to write well in high school in order to score well on the ACT. I had to write well on the ACT in order to be accepted into college. I have to write well in college in order to be adopted into the workforce of the society in which I live. And, in all likelihood, I will have to write well at my job in order to bring home the metaphoric bacon. My whole life has been spent preparing for the next stage of societal existence, and it only makes sense that my compositional habits fit into this pattern. I write because I am perpetually planning ahead.

But, no. That can’t be it. I write for a purpose, for meaning. Right? I write for that attentive look that charges me with adrenaline as I glance up from my reading. I write in order to hear that subdued but thoughtful compliment in a personal setting after a poetry reading. Or that poorly scribbled smiley face in the margin of my latest analytical effort. Or even that confused but astounded look after reading a gaudy section of unnecessarily wordy prose. Maybe it’s scholarly praise from professors, or constructive criticism from peers. Awe from younger students. Awe from older students. Heck, just awe. Just praise. I like it when you think I’m deep. I write because, dammit, I just want you to like me.

Huh.

I guess I write to be understood.