THIS IS WHY WE WRITE

This is why

This is why we fight

And when we die

We will die

With our arms unbound

And this is why

This is why we fight

Come hell

Come hell

– Colin Meloy (The Decemberists), “This Is Why We Fight“

I don’t think I’ve ever taught a class where we didn’t begin with some version of  “Why are we here? Why are we studying this topic?”

I believe it’s important to ask ourselves why we do the things we do. If we can’t answer that question, maybe we shouldn’t do it. Asking questions helps us become more intentional and thoughtful, instead of mindlessly responding to stimuli. It helps us face up to all the reasons we’re doing something, good and bad. And, the asking and answering can help us do it better.

Some people have wondered why I bother writing. It’s not my job. I don’t get paid for it. I often get about as much disapproval as encouragement. So, why am I writing these things? Who’s my audience? What’s the goal?

I write for me; I write to order and reorder my thoughts. As I read what I’ve written, there’s a moment where I’m like, “Oh, hey, I remember that guy. I recall thinking what he’s saying.” Writing helps me know what I believe. It doesn’t capture those beliefs in amber, static forever, but it holds them in time, and makes them available for consideration. Sometimes I read something I wrote many years ago, when I was a much different version of myself, and I cringe. It can be embarrassing, but it’s still useful – I get to see where I’ve come from and maybe how I got here. Joan Didion famously answered the question when she said, “We tell ourselves stories in order to live…by the imposition of a narrative…to freeze the shifting phantasmagoria….”

Sometimes I write to persuade, to advocate, with a verdict in mind. That happens less these days. Mostly, I tell stories to prove I was here; and by so doing shape what “I” and “here” mean. I read for similar reasons and with the same result.

I also write for you. People matter to me. Community matters to me. I guess my hope is that others will read my story, and it will have an impact on them and their story – make them feel seen and heard, add a character to their scene and herd, make things more interesting, more meaningful. 

I don’t write to get traffic. I’m not after likes, follows, online clout, attention, or ad revenue. Is it rewarding when it looks like lots of people (tens of people, in my case) are affected by something I wrote? Sure. More stories are weaving together. But I’ve never really seen writing as my job or as a commercial pursuit. Maybe I should. I keep being told I need to start a Substack newsletter, or a podcast, etc. I don’t know….

There’s a great scene in the 1981 Oscar-winning film, Chariots of Fire, when Olympic runner, Eric Liddell, is confronting the tension between fulfilling God’s calling as a missionary, and competing as an Olympian. He says, “I believe God made me for a purpose, but He also made me fast. And when I run, I feel His pleasure.”

My belief in god is complicated these days, but I still hold on to the vague idea of destiny. There are few things I can do well. I can’t heal the sick, build a dam, or write computer code; but I can pull words together and push them out into the world, sometimes to pleasing effect. When I do, I feel…something. Not god’s pleasure, but some sense of purpose, like I’m doing what I was made for. It’s my way of contributing.

When I use words that are untrue, or unnecessarily hurtful, or if I finesse my words to offer unrealistic optimism, I betray the obligation I have to be honest. In fact, I’m working on a piece about post-election reactions and the Religion of American Optimism. A lot of people are going to hate that one.