Why Write? A Defense of an Absurd Habit

Why Write?

Writing is a bizarre way to spend one’s time. You sit alone, wrestling with a blinking cursor, trying to arrange words in an order that won’t make future you cringe. It’s like building a house of cards in a hurricane and calling it art. And yet, here we are—writing, rewriting, and occasionally pretending we’re Hemingway after two espressos. Why?

Reason 1: Revenge

Life is unfair. People cut in line, exes ghost, and the Wi-Fi always fails at critical moments. Writing lets you rewrite reality. That coworker who stole your lunch? Now he’s the villain in your thriller, and his fate is gruesomely poetic. The barista who spelled your name “Shmeryl” on your latte? Congratulations, they’ve just inspired a dystopian universe where misspelling names is punishable by exile. Writing is the ultimate power move: if you can’t win in life, win on the page.

Reason 2: Therapy (But Cheaper)

Therapy costs $300 an hour. Writing costs nothing, unless you count the emotional toll of realizing your inner monologue sounds like a confused Wikipedia edit. But unlike therapy, writing lets you curate your breakdowns. Your journal can be a tragicomic masterpiece. Your protagonist can say all the things you wish you’d said. And if you’re really lucky, someone might read it and think, Wow, what a profound soul—instead of, Wow, this person needs help.

Reason 3: Immortality (Or at Least a Google Hit)

Let’s face it: you’re probably not going to be carved into Mount Rushmore. But writing guarantees you’ll leave behind something—even if it’s just a Yelp review lamenting the “crime against humanity” that was the avocado toast at Café Pretentious. Words outlast us. Shakespeare’s dead, but people still argue about whether he really wrote all those plays (he did, conspiracy theorists, he did). Your grocery list may not endure like Hamlet, but future archaeologists will appreciate the insight into 21st-century snack trends.

Reason 4: The Joy of Being Misunderstood

Speaking is overrated. People interrupt, misinterpret, or—worst of all—ignore you. Writing lets you craft your thoughts with the precision of a neurosurgeon, only for readers to go, Huh, I think this is about capitalism? It’s hilarious. You could write “THE SKY IS BLUE” in bold font, and someone will inevitably comment,*Actually, it’s a social construct. Writing teaches you to embrace the chaos.

Reason 5: Because You’re Probably Bad at Everything Else

Let’s not kid ourselves. If you were good at math, you’d be an accountant. If you were athletic, you’d be outside. But you? You’re the kind of person who Googles “how to describe a sunset without clichés” at 2 AM. Writing is the refuge of the overthinkers, the daydreamers, and those who’ve accepted that their hand-eye coordination peaked in middle school dodgeball.

Reason 6: The Only Controlled Way to Tap Into Your Unconscious

There are only a few reliable ways to access the murky depths of your subconscious: dreaming (chaotic, unpredictable), drugs (illegal, expensive, and likely to end with you explaining to a cop why you’re naked in a fountain), and writing—the most controllable of the three. Writing lets you spelunk into your psyche without risking a hangover or a court date. One minute you’re describing a coffee shop; the next, you’ve accidentally unearthed a childhood trauma and turned it into a metaphor about toasters. It’s self-discovery with an undo button.

Conclusion: Write Because You Have No Choice

Writing isn’t a hobby; it’s a compulsion. It’s the itch in your brain that won’t quiet down until you’ve turned a stray thought into 800 words of questionable value. So go ahead—write the poem, the rant, the novel that’s just Gilmore Girls fanfic with the serial numbers filed off. Do it badly. Do it brilliantly. Just do it, because the alternative is thinking these thoughts and not weaponizing them. And where’s the fun in that?

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go describe a sunset. The sky bled orange like a pumpkin threw up on the horizon.

Next to get it out to readers. Try The Write Kit!

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Security Theater

By Liz Dubelman

Sheri clocked in at 6 PM, trading places with Al in a ritual so mundane it could’ve been sponsored by Ambien. The Century Tower loomed behind them—a monument to corporate reinvention, its "green" credentials as genuine as the plastic ferns in the lobby. Sixteen monitors flickered to life under Sheri’s gaze, each one a window into a world where nothing happened, until suddenly, catastrophically, it did.

Act 1: The Watched and the Ignored

On Camera G: Jeff Peterson, tax attorney and human still life. His partners—Bob Myers and Gina Peterson (also Jeff’s wife)—left at 6:01 PM sharp, their synchronized exits more rehearsed than a Broadway duet. The elevator camera caught Bob’s hand lingering on Gina’s lower back for a beat too long. Sheri logged it mentally under Things Everyone Knows But Pretends Not To.

Outside, the dog walkers treated the sidewalk like a crime scene they had no intention of cleaning up. Sheri documented each violation with the enthusiasm of a DMV clerk. Camera P, 11:04 PM: Woman in athleisure (same as yesterday, same as tomorrow), dog with the moral compass of a reality TV star. Violation: Shit and split. The notes went somewhere. Probably a server. Probably ignored.

Rita from cleaning waved as she passed, her mop bucket rattling like a prisoner’s chains. "Hiya!" she chirped, a greeting so devoid of meaning it could’ve been auto-generated. Sheri nodded back. The building’s security system was state-of-the-art—cameras in every corner, motion sensors, biometric locks—and yet here they were, two underpaid women playing their parts in a pantomime of safety.

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Act 2: The Illusion of Control

Sheri divided her attention between the monitors like a bored god. 15 minutes per camera. 2 minutes per hour. Adjust for "importance." As if any of it mattered. The lights in the offices clicked off one by one, triggered by motion—or lack thereof. Jeff Peterson’s office stayed dark until he shifted, and then—*bam*—the fluorescents blazed to life, exposing him mid-spiral.

He wasn’t working. He was staring at his screen like it held the answers to questions he was too afraid to ask. Sheri wondered if he knew about the cameras. If he cared. If he ever thought about the fact that his most private unraveling was being witnessed by a graveyard-shift guard playing sudoku with surveillance feeds.

On Camera E: Rita danced with her mop to a song only she could hear. On Camera J: Juan pillaged the trash cans like a raccoon with a 401(k). And outside, Yoga Girl and her dog performed their nightly ritual of obliviousness. The cameras saw it all. Sheri saw it all.

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Act 3: The Theater Cracks

The attack happened in high-definition black and white. One moment, Yoga Girl was scrolling through her phone, her dog a puff of privilege at her feet. The next, a man—Jeff?—grabbed her from behind. Sheri’s fingers hovered over the phone. Her job was to protect the building. Not the people. The building.

She called 911 anyway, her voice flat. "Yeah, there’s a woman getting assaulted outside 1801 Century Park East. No, I can’t go out there. I’m monitoring."

The cops arrived just as Jeff—because, of course, it was Jeff—raised his belt like some derailed suburban vigilante. The gunshot was louder than Sheri expected, even through the monitors. Jeff dropped. Yoga Girl crawled away. The dog was gone.

And the cameras kept taping.

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Final Frame: The Joke’s on Everyone

The next night, Sheri was back at her post. The monitors showed the same scenes: Rita mopping, Juan looting, new dog walkers, new violations. Jeff’s office was dark, his chair empty. Someone had cleaned the sidewalk.

Sheri adjusted her earbuds and hit play on her Awake playlist. The building was secure. The system worked.

And no one was watching the watcher.