Aridi Writes

“Why do you write?”

Not a lot of people ask me this question. Not anymore, at least. A lot of folk did when I was back in College, but the answer then was different to now. The real answer at least. I’m not sure I told anyone the real answer, and that was simply that I didn’t want to deal with the life I was living; it was easier to make up entirely new lives for entirely different people.

These days, writing is a different proposition. I’m in a healthier mental state than ever; I have friends, I have a social life, I have a job. I’m becoming more “normal”, as some would say, proudly. My own thoughts on that particular definition and way of life shall remain guarded, for now. I don’t want to scare anyone away with a froth-mouthed rant just yet.

Nowadays I write for a smattering of reasons that fit together, like the Constructicons, to form the Devastator that is reason:

1) I can see myself writing for the rest of my life. I can’t imagine at all having nothing to write, or not wanting to write.

2) I feel that I have stories to tell. Some people might not like them but I think other people will, and I believe that one of the most precious things you can give to someone else is a story.

3) There is too much formulaic fiction on the shelves for me to give up writing original work.

4) Writing is perhaps the only career I can see lasting me until retirement (and most probably beyond).

To be honest, though, those reasons are just the limbs that attach to the two-Decepticon trunk of the mighty gestalt; what is at the core of the answer is a lot more complex, but is perhaps best conveyed in a simple response to the question asked above. It certainly went through my mind the last time I was asked, which was sometime last year. I’ve never found out the answer.

“How would I not write?”