Why Do I Write?

Several things have led me to this point. I decided last year to go back to Colorado State University for a couple of creative writing classes. I would say that the classes were a success for me. I discovered that I could write Creative Nonfiction, which is a genre of Creative Writing that I thought I hated. Maybe now I don’t dislike it because the professor told me that I am great at it. I wanted to apply for a master’s in creative writing, but I missed the deadline. What will I do with myself now?

At Christmastime I received a book of writing prompts 642 Things to Write About. I decided to write a list of goals for 2026. Goals are more specific. I will write one prompt from the book a week culminating in 52 stories for the year of 2026. I will accomplish this by reading a prompt on Friday, think about it for the week, write it, then publish it on Thursday on my blog.

Today is Thursday, at least it is for me. It might be Monday for you. If it is Monday, then hopefully I can make another depressing Monday a little better for you.

I write because I want to remember now. I think Field Notes has that as their motto or something similar. I write because I have a lot of crap inside of me that hurts and I want to get it out. I have pain that I feel inside of me, and it makes me want to shout at people because they cannot understand it or they have never felt it as I feel it or they think I should just get over it.

I write because I have a voice. Another white guy with a voice. I should know better because it’s 2026. It isn’t your time. Edit. It’s my time and it’s your time. Screw anyone who says otherwise.

I write because I have a talent that I have buried for too long. I started writing in 9^th grade. Every teacher and professor has told me that I should write more because I am good at it according to them. I did not think so because I thought it was too easy to create a story so anyone could do it. I wanted to do something else, anything else.

I used to write a journal, but it was too personal and I burned most of them so that if I was fortunate to die nobody would read my most intimate thoughts that did not reflect the whole story, but pieces of someone that I used to be at a moment that passed.

I write because sometimes I have funny thoughts in my head that I hope someone else will laugh at, possibly making them feel a little better than they did before they started reading whatever I had written for them.

I write because as I sit here in an espresso shop, I see someone’s art and I start to form a story about the characters and what was happening in their world during the time which the artist created it. Personally, I think he was about to ask her on a date. She turned him down. Obviously, she did not like that hat.

I hope the prompts after this one are more creative so I can write a story. Maybe a story about him after his rejection from her. He probably has a more peaceful existence.

I hope that I will write something far more interesting from the next prompt. Unfortunately, I will not share the stories from the two classes that I took last year because the professor thought I should publish them in a magazine. I haven’t decided to enter that road of rejection yet. I don’t think I can handle any this earlier in the new year.