“Why the Hell Do We Write?” — Chronicle of a Writer with Dice and Doubts

I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve asked myself this question — in all its possible forms.
Why write? What’s the point? Who do you think you are? Who’s going to read it?
Why don’t you do something more useful? Why do you make your life harder?

And the worst part?
These questions don’t come from others.
They come from inside.
From that little bastard voice.
The one that shows up just when you’re about to write a great scene.
Or when you open your doc and the bold title stares at you like it’s about to ask for rent money.

That voice?
Unfortunately, it knows you best. And it can hurt you the most.
It knows exactly what to say to land a critical hit and shatter your motivation.
That voice is your worst enemy.

It’s you.

This post won’t give you magic formulas.
It’s more like a chat — you and me, with a coffee in hand — about why the hell we keep writing.
Why we started.
And why we haven’t thrown it all in the trash… yet.

Why write?

The big question.
The main one. The scariest. The one I struggle with the most.

My first instinct is to say something like, “Because I fucking feel like it.”
But let’s be honest — that’s not the full story.
It doesn’t really explain all the reasons that make me press the keys, hoping something meaningful lands on the page.

The long answer dances around the idea that I don’t know how not to write.
One day, I read something that shook me. I thought, “I want to do this.”
There’s also the classic “I can do it better” — but that’s a whole different league.

I’ve been imagining worlds and characters for years. I come up with dialogue in the shower, only to forget it before I can write it down.
Because if I don’t get it out, it lingers inside and it hurts.
Because writing — even when it’s hard — brings relief.

But above all, I write because I’d love to make someone feel what I feel when I finish reading a book that wrecks my brain for weeks.
The kind I can’t shut up about.
The kind I recommend to everyone I know.

That’s why we dive into this ridiculous quest of typing out a story.

But it still doesn’t explain what gets us to take that first step.

Why start?

What makes you sit down in front of the computer?
What pushes you to grab a notebook and a pen?
What urges you to start splashing graphemes on a blank page?

Maybe it’s because there’s a story that keeps circling your head.
A character that won’t shut up.
An image that haunts you.
A sentence you’d love to read — but no one’s written it yet.
Or maybe it’s all of that at once.

In my case, I’ve been telling stories since I learned how to type back in the late ’90s — at least starting them.
But it wasn’t until five years ago that I decided to actually finish my first novel.
And it all started with a song.
But that’s a story for another post.

Whatever sparks the flame, there’s one undeniable truth:
Starting is hard.

Maybe you’re facing the terror of the blank page.
Or maybe, after a strong opening, your momentum crashes by the end of the first paragraph — or the first page, if you’re lucky.

But if you don’t start, there’s no story. No nothing.

And yeah, starting is scary.
It means committing. Putting yourself out there. Accepting that you’ll mess up — probably a lot — before writing something half-decent.

But let me tell you something: we all start from the same pile of crap.
From doubt.
From “this is dumb.”
From “nobody’s going to read this.”

So what?
It’s yours.
And that alone makes it important.
Don’t forget that once you get going.

Why keep going?

Okay. Let’s say you made it past the first step. You’re on a roll. You’ve written 20 pages. Maybe 4 chapters.

And suddenly, your characters are trapped in a situation, and you have no clue how to get them out.
Because you’ve started.
Or worse — you’ve lost your initial fire.

And you’re still on the first draft.

Now what? Why even bother continuing?

There’s no easy answer. But here’s one:
Because the characters have become real.
Because they made you laugh, or cry, or scream at the screen.
Because even if the first draft is a mess, there’s something there.
Something worth fighting for.

In my case?
I’ve started — and by all the gods, I’m going to finish.
It’s not about pride.
Well, not the bad kind that comes from your wounded inner child.
It’s more about being able to say: I finished something I set out to do. I saw it through. By Superman, I told the damn story.

Continuing is harder than starting.
Because it’s not a promise anymore — it’s a relationship.
And like any relationship, it has its “What the hell am I doing?” moments.
But also its “Damn, this is actually working.” ones.

Continuing means writing even when you don’t feel like it.
Even when it feels like garbage.
Even on bad days.
Even when you’ve lost the thread.
Even when you’re this close to deleting everything.

Continuing is resistance.
And also love.

Why not give up?

It may sound similar to “why keep going” — but for me, it hits different.
Continuing is about writing. Planning. Finishing the manuscript.

Wanting to quit?
That shows up later.
When you’re editing for the third time your 100,000-word beast.
When you notice a character’s eye color changed between chapters 2 and 17 — on the 20th reread.
When you start querying agents and all you get back is the echo of your own desperation.

That’s when your strength starts to fade.
And you start questioning everything.

So why not just shove it in a drawer and crash on the couch?

Because deep down, you know that if you quit, you’ll always have that nagging thought:
“What if I’d finished it?”

Because it’s not about publishing. Or fame. Or book deals.
(Though hey, if they come — great.)

It’s about you. Your words.
It’s about finishing something.
Building something that didn’t exist before.
Telling a story.

And yeah, there are days when it all feels heavy.
When writing hurts.
When revising your own draft feels like a task for Hercules.

But if you’ve made it this far, you’ve already won.
You’ve beaten the doubt at least once.
And that’s worth more than a thousand likes.

Don’t give up.

Rest. Scream. Play some Baldur’s Gate. Roll some dice. Breathe.

But don’t give up.

Epilogue

Writing isn’t always epic.
And I get the feeling that a lot of people romanticize it way too much.
Most of the time, it’s slow. Messy. Repetitive. Frustrating.

But it’s also magic.
It’s conjuring worlds from words.
It’s turning chaos into something meaningful.
It’s creating life from nothing.

And if you’re here, doing this…
It’s because something inside you needs to.

So thank you for still being here.
Thank you for not giving up.
Thank you for telling stories.

See you in the next chapter.