Margaret Atwood, in her book Negotiating with the Dead (I’ll review that one real soon), claimed that writers write out of a fear of DEATH. As I read that book, I agreed with her. At the moment, though, it feels like I’m writing out of a compulsion—some weird DRIVE to entertain myself. (Not a very mature impulse, but I don’t give a shit.)
I can’t speak for ALL writers or even for all the times when I, myself, write, but at THIS MOMENT, I’m writing because I love putting words onto paper. [Editor’s note: This bit was originally written on a scrap of waste paper.] These aren’t important words—not MONUMENTAL THOUGHTS that MUST be recorded… I don’t eve care if the words make sense—or rhyme—or convey meaning of any kind. I write just for the joy of it.
—Richard F. Yates
(Primitive Thoughtician and Grand Hoohaa of The P.E.W.)