Day Fifty-Eight: Why Am I Doing This?

For fifty-eight days, I have been sitting down at a computer and writing. I write about life, I write about moving, cooking, dogs, people, and things that annoy me. For fifty-eight days, I've chronicled my thoughts habitually. For fifty-eight days, I've formed words into sentences, and sentences into roughly-hewn paragraphs. And I can't for the life of me remember why I started writing everyday.

I know I didn't want to bore myself, and that I felt like I needed to use the talents God gave me rather than let them sit in my brain and do nothing while I aged and got old and too busy to do it anymore. But really, now I realize that it doesn't really make a difference. If I like it, I should do it, and if I don't, then why does it matter? Luckily, I like it. I like sitting down to write everyday, assuming I can think of something to write about. Most of the time, unfortunately, I can't think of anything decent to write about, but I usually come up with something somewhat decent and put something together. My first few posts were a much higher caliber of writing than a lot of what I have been writing lately -- more descriptive, less introspective, and more creative with a larger range of vocabulary. But it occurred to me this evening that I have been writing so habitually that I don't even think about why I do it anymore: because I like it.

I make myself write everyday because I'm lazy, and given the opportunity I will many times lay on the couch and watch Food Network over doing just about any kind of personally enriching creative activity. And I think in that regard, I'm doing the right thing. But I have to be doing it for the right reason, too. And thankfully, I think I am.

It reminds me on a regular basis why I chose to go to college for writing, and why at one point I wanted to make it my career. Because I love it, and it comes fairly naturally to me. So I'll keep doing it, because I need a kick in the ass. And maybe at some point, I'll strengthen my weakness of being absolutely terrible at coming up with decent conclusions to things I write about.