Why do I write?
I’ve written a bit about my exhibitionism, and exhibitionism is certainly part of it. And I’ve written a bit about my insatiable need for approval, and, failing that, at least non-judgmental, neutral receipt of my desires.
But it’s a good question.
A friend commented the other day that writing has become my dope. This seems about right.
I’m not a man of half-measures. (Well, except when I am. But mostly, I’m not.)
Lately, I’ve been stealing moments to write in the same way I used to steal moments to pay for sexual encounters. Not exactly – I have boundaries now, so I don’t steal the time from my family in the same way I used to. But I do stay up later than I might otherwise, write when previously I might have been reading. It’s all a bit of a shock to me.
I never thought of myself really as a “writer.” My wife was joking the other day – she said, “I think that makes you a writer,” when I described my urgent desire/need to write.
But why? Why must I write? And must it (always?) be about sex? I’m not sure about that. I have two other blogs, each far less prolific than this, and each far less compelling to me. My heart tells me of at least two possible paths this blogging could go: I could, successfully, use the sex-blogging as a sort of training ground for writing about the other things that interest me (and believe it or not, there are other things that interest me). Or, I could find myself essentially growing this platform into a larger, less sex-obsessed space. The problem with that latter approach, of course, is that the history here is so sordid, and I think it unlikely I’ll want anyone who knows my name to know about what I’ve written here (other than a hand-picked few).
I don’t know if I’m answering the question: I feel myself flailing.
So once more: why do I write?
First, foremost: I write because (it seems) I have to.
Second: I write because I want to record – my past, my present. For whom? For me, for my wife. Who knows, possibly, I guess, one day for the family more broadly.
Third (and this connects to the first): I write because it feels good – in a crack-like way – for me to speak aloud, to expose to the sunlight and the air, the deepest darkest corners of my mind. Shame is my disease; exposure, my antidote.