Sometimes I ask myself why I write. Usually I ask myself this as I’m writing. Then my friends ask me why I write when I complain about how I hate writing. (I don’t actually hate writing. I just like to complain about writing. Frankly, I like to complain.)
I think the thing is, though, that my head is full of stories. As a kid, I’d often be smiling for no apparent reason, but it was because I was telling myself stories in my head. Some of these stories—okay, most of these stories—are Mary Sues where I’m the star. Others, though, are stories like the Werewolf novel. No one wants me to write the Mary Sues, of course, but the others…. I think I write because I feel like I need to get these stories out, and that I need to get them “right.”
By “right,” I mean that I feel like I need to tell the story in the most consistent, coherent way possible. Why? Well, because it’s in my head, and what’s the point of leaving it there? (Also, sometimes I worry that if I do leave the stories in there, my head will explode, at least figuratively.)
So that’s why I write. Because the characters in my head won’t shut up.