Why I Write

The man is only half himself, the other half is his expression

This weekend I happened upon a few pages I’d written as a college senior—a stormy time in my life to say the least.

I was struck by how personal and vulnerable the writing felt. I caught myself nodding in agreement as I captured the difficulties of writing, and to a larger extent, life. How tough it was to find sustainable inspiration and to express a particular understanding or observation in a meaningful way.

I often wonder why I feel the need to write. Why do I continue to guilt myself into writing paragraph after paragraph? Why do I struggle to make something from nothing? I don’t have an answer, but I did find a clue in one of the lines I dug up:

I write because I am only half myself, the other half is my expression. As someone who lacks the artistic vision of a painter, or the golden voice of a musician, I turn to writing. I write because it’s the only way to express the other half of my thoughts. The only way to share the rest of me.