Why Do We Write

Lately I have been reading Shakespeare for ideas and listening to Beethoven as a atmosphere for my daily writings. I find atmosphere can have a great impact on writing, as well as how long its been since my last cold shower. 


So, for the third time in a row, I start my post off with some Shakespeare.

Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,
But sad mortality o'er-sways their power,
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
O, how shall summer's honey breath hold out
Against the wreckful siege of battering days,
When rocks impregnable are not so stout,
Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays?
O fearful meditation! where, alack,
Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid?
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back?
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?
O, none, unless this miracle have might,
That in black ink my love may still shine bright.

(Feel free to read with a dictionary, if the 15th century English troubles you.)


This poem is very similar to his Sonnet 116, which has for a long time been my favorite among Shakespeare's sonnets. Now on with the topic of this article:


Why do we write? 


In poetry it is possible to make something beautiful out of pain. To make something that, at least in Shakespeare's case, is truly undying. It is a way to bring light to darkness.


To create a monument of suffering, pain, virtue, truth, love, beauty and their connection. "That in black ink my love may still shine bright," Shakespeare said. 


That in pain love may still reign eternal, that is the reason for this writing. Shakespeare with his sonnets and his plays; Rumi with his poems of love for God; Poe in Stories like Eleonora and poems like Annabel Lee.

And neither the angels in heaven above,
          Nor the demons down under the sea,
    Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
          Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

 Love is the reason for writing.