Last night, feeling somewhat morose and not in the mood to put pen to paper, I was browsing through some old bookmarks. I came across this from Scratchpad, which I had posted privately as a chivvy-up for the times I was feeling down. I won’t post it verbatim here (follow the link; I don’t think the site is updated any longer), but this was the part that struck a chord with me the most:
Writers do not write because they are required to do so. Writers write because they just cannot not do it. They are driven to seek for what is hidden in the human world, unearth it through their words, and, in doing so, show a whole new perception of what it means to be alive.
I write because I feel compelled to do so. I am driven to it. If what I write will be considered to be of any value, I do not know. And it does not matter. All that matters is that I write, remaining true to myself. Then I will have achieved what I set out to do when I first consciously wrote a word on a page: to cause ripples in the pond.