Why do we write? Because we can’t not

I’m writing this on the Tube on my commute. A few years ago, what I’d be penning would be a poem or short story; I even once wrote almost a full draft of a novel while travelling from east to west London every day to work (in another life).

Now, my sweltering morning ride is most likely to be filled with opinion writing for our comment section about a trending news topic or sketching out notes for the day ahead on the Voices desk. But regardless of the content that appears within my iPhone notes (and despite the attempts of my colleagues to get me to use Google Docs) – one thing is consistent: I write, I write, I write.

But I rarely pause to ask myself why I write. Why do any of us write? I can speak only as a journalist and now (latterly) a poet – my debut collection came out last week, a nerve-wracking process if ever there was one – and for me, it doesn’t matter what kind of writing I’m doing, for the joy stays the same.

I write because I can’t not, because putting a feeling into words helps me make sense of it; helps me gather the chaotic threads that lurk inside my mind like balls of wool, unspooled and uneven. I write because of the simple, unadulterated pleasure of trying to craft a perfect sentence.

Writing is a form of translation in one sense; communication in another. It is catharsis and creation and passion.

It can be urgent – such as when we cover a breaking news story and have to publish a piece within the hour – and it can be considered, too… I began a long read feature on motherhood, which will be published in The Independent’s Premium section this weekend, six years ago. It has transformed and transmuted since; been distilled and added to and erased.

I write because I love it and I don’t know if that ecstasy will ever disappear. I hope not. I was reminded of the peculiar pleasure of creative writing this weekend, on a trip to Bristol to take part in a flash fiction festival.

While there, I participated in a class examining hybrid forms of writing: a space where poetry meets prose, and where memoir can be fragmented into stanzas and take on a life of its own.

It reminded me that no matter the hectic nature of breaking news, I’m fortunate to have the best job in the world, bar none: to write for a living. But even if I didn’t, I know one thing: I’d still write.

Yours,

Victoria Richards

Voices editor