Why write? I am not asking whether writing is worth it, since that can only be judged on a case by case basis. Any act of writing is almost always worth it in some way, but for each metric that allows me to say “yes, that was worth it,” there is always another metric that requires me to conclude the opposite. There will always be better and worse reasons to write, and either are capable of producing “good” writing so long as we believe in some kind of boundary between writer and word. “Good” writing seems like the most obvious justification for the act, but I can think of several instances of my own “bad” writing that, despite the quality, could be considered worth it. You might be thinking, “yes, of course, none of us are born perfect and we need the worse attempts to help clear the way for the better attempts.” And you’re right! This is a perfectly fine way to think about practice and skill-building, and any example of “bad” writing can be redeemable if understood as part of a development, of a journey to something better. But what if the bad writing doesn’t just precede good writing but also follows after it? (He was “past his prime.”) Or what if the bad writing feels better, flows more naturally, than the good? (He doesn’t understand his audience, his writing is self-serving.) Eventually the labels lose their traction. Bad writing, like good writing, simply “is”, and the question is not one of quality control but of how to live with writing, regardless of quality, as both necessity and impossibility. Writing is an act that must be carried out, but only ever inadequately. But if writing as such is necessary, is it a necessity for me? Must I also perform this already doomed task?
Every word you will ever read on this blog is unnecessary. None of these posts have to be written (or read!), and some, I’m sure, may just as well remain unpublished. But these words are here (by my choice), and dear reader, so are you (by yours!). When it comes to the fact of our existence, none of us have any say. Any control or agency we have, or imagine ourselves to have, comes after the fact, specifically that fact. Our words have a similar character. Even when we stop speaking or typing or scribbling the pen, the flow of words does not cease, except for the occasional interruption be it a contemplative pause or mental lapse. Words always escape our control, incessantly seeping in and out despite our best efforts to contain. So as long as our words keep slipping into another’s field of consciousness, we might think about what those words are and what we would like them to do. Whether they are “good” or “bad” seems an inadequate question; a better question might be, what gift might be contained in these words, my words? What is my gift, given in words?
April 24, 2026