What propels writers to do their thing? There’s no singular answer, of course, since each writer has his or her own reasons for putting words to paper. Sometimes, the issues of the day nag and nag and nag until they can’t be shoved aside. George Orwell couldn’t ignore political injustices, and on the heels of WWII he wrote an essay called “Why I Write.” After explaining that, yes, his purpose for writing was largely political, Orwell faced the unspoken head-on:

All writers are vain, selfish and lazy, and at the very bottom of their motives there lies a mystery. Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not drive on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand. For all one knows that demon is simply the same instinct that makes a baby squall for attention. And yet it is also true that one can write nothing readable unless one constantly struggles to efface one’s own personality.

In other words, writers who are honest with themselves have the most to offer. Last week, Patty Somlo bared her motives in a piece called “The Reason I Write.” While, yes, she’d love to be rewarded with a bit of fame and a bit of glory for her hard work, she writes because she can’t imagine not writing:

…My heart breaks a little bit every time one of my stories gets rejected. At such times, all those bestselling authors, with their lovely country homes and their good hair, seem to mock me. Their success slaps me like one of those wet snapped towels and I hear them saying over and over again, Why on earth does she keep writing?… In our current climate of instant celebrity, it is hard to hold onto the old-fashioned notion that creativity is a reward in itself. But given the simple math, there can only be a small number of winners. Loving to write has to remain the real reason for staying in the game.

I’d love to see a piece titled “The Reason I Read.” Who’s going to write it?