Why do I write?

I ask myself this question a lot. Especially lately.

Writing is so painful sometimes. A true labor- with groanings and spasms all its own.
Making 26 letters cooperate can be as hard as cleaning up a honey spill. Impossible.
Words won’t behave, inspiration takes a vacation. Tripping between self-doubt and pride.

So why do I write?

Why do I force myself to do this thing that at times seems so pointless and loathsome and hurtful?

Because it’s what I know how to do. Because I have felt tethered to it since I was a small child. Because it’s the thing I do best. Because I can’t seem to shake the idea that I should write, that I am supposed to be a writer. Bits and bobs of words got woven in my make up. Alphabet soup in my soul.

So even though writing sucks sometimes, even though I love having written more than I love writing, I keep on. What matters most is the pen faithfully hitting the paper. Day by day, another stride is made. Even if the price of progress is my blood, sweat, and tears.