why write?

Why write? is a good question. It is a hard question.

Rather than warrant an answer, it marks the somewhat concealed location of a process. And it is in this rather obscure location that we surmise the presence of what we loosely call reasons, urges, motivations, etc. [to write]

It’s the kind of question you shrug off when you hear it voiced by others, only to find waiting for you in that place where only you go when all else is quiet; the kind of question that activates before and after everything else, or all at once, but never in synch. Perhaps the only real force it holds is suggestive, a power over the writing process itself. The power to take away, or, shift the direction somewhat, change the nature of the drive.

It is always a question that has already been asked, that is in the middle of being-asked. If, that is, there is a text.

Why write? is a question that invites any number of answers when articulated with authority. And it has generated some very authoritative responses indeed. They vary, covering the spectrum of concerns and purposes, modes and existences. It is a question that presumes the subject, interestingly. It’s a personal question. The more convincing answers demonstrate this. And yet, even among the better accounts rendered, the subject slips somewhere between the thought-process and the articulation of an answer in words.

We have come to realise, painfully, that to formulate an answer to this question when it is articulated directly, as an address or an interpellation, will not –cannot– yield a definitive answer, though it may produce useful, thought-provoking, enlightening reflections.

A conundrum or puzzle? A trick? A cop out? A journey to be carried out? A thread to follow back? In any case, this ought not to be considered a conclusion or, worse, a forfeit. A question is a question, and this tells us very little but it does tell us something.

As we sustain our attention upon this question we find that it exercises a certain effortless draw, like an unknown ought to be suspected behind every smile, every closed door, every tree branch, every word […]

Is it possible to elaborate a doctrine, arouse a kind of faith, in a question? It would appear so for some.

My suggestion, for now, is merely that our understanding of text, of writing, the writing of text, changes with the arrival of this question.

And finally, for now, that the question at its best establishes a presence comparable in stature to the shrewdest of answers. Yes, it is true: that a “truth” is just about as singular as the telling.

But we know this. Yes, we know this. Or, we know this, but […]

In any case, and for what it’s worth: if this question why write? is put into writing there is already an answer smuggled in somewhere.

In this way, somehow, the question mark drops from the interrogation and whether it becomes affirmative or not, the performance begins.