The ‘will’ to write.

I often do things without knowing why.

When I’m alone, I start talking to the voices in my head. When I step on a pebble, I immediately try to step on another one to get a matching feeling on my other foot. And when I don’t know what to do with my life, I waste half a decade chasing a tech degree that now lives inside of a box somewhere.

Now, while the voices and pebble-stepping rituals are probably just symptoms of some lingering Tourette’s and OCD, pointlessly pursuing academic degrees is a symptom of something more serious: having no clue of what to do with my life. Fortunately, getting a degree wasn’t wasted.

At the very least, it taught me an invaluable lesson: doing something without a clear reason can lead to a butt-load of wasted time, energy, and, sometimes, regret. You might even end up spending years and thousands of dollars to become an expert in something no one — including you — cares about.

That’s why, as a writer, you should know your “why.”

Why do you think regularly sitting down and rearranging words on a screen is a good idea? Why do you want to do this writing thing? Is it for prestige? To prove something to yourself or others? To avoid making a different, scarier decision? To maybe, just maybe, make a little bit of more money?

If you don’t have a clear answer to these questions, duck.

Because I’m going to throw some bad news at you…

You’re on track of giving up — or being miserable.

Why? Because writing without a “why” is like trying to cross a desert on a unicycle. Could you do it? Sure (assuming you are a little unhinged). But if you don’t have a reason, the moment it gets hard, you’ll chuck that unicycle at a rattlesnake, stick out your thumb, and hitchhike to the nearest parlor.

And even if you don’t give up — because you’re one of those super-disciplined lunatics who powers through anything — the result won’t be pretty. You might make it across the desert, yes, but you’ll hate every minute of it and spend the rest of your life twitching whenever someone mentions sand.

Your “why” is your compass. Without a “why,” you’ll write aimlessly. Today you might start an article featuring Zuckerberg, tomorrow you might try to cash in on writing self-help, and by next week you might be penning an autobiography to process your childhood fixation with the marshmallow man.

The result? Strings of unfinished drafts and the feeling that you’ve spent years creating nothing.

Without a solid reason for why you’re writing, you’ll find yourself half-committed to projects you’re not even passionate about. That article featuring Zuck? You’ll forget about it halfway through, only to start thinking that maybe originality is overvalued and in the end it’s just about paying the bills.

That’s when you’ll hop onto self-help , or whatever else is currently at the top of your feeds, because you think that’s where the money is. And when that attempt inevitably loses steam, you will turn inward and try to work through your trauma, only to realize the cycle of aimlessness never ends.

But as soon as you have a clear “why,” it brings focus to your writing. You now have a reason to push through — a reason to finish projects, even when your wheel is half-deflated. What’s more, your “why” helps you prioritize your time, mood, and energy, so you’re not just chasing every new idea.

Your “why” keeps you grounded during challenges.

It’s like putting a GPS on your unicycle. You’ll still sweat through the desert, but at least you’ll know you’re not going in circles. You’ll know you’re headed somewhere, even though you may not know exactly where. But knowing you’re headed some place beats feeling like you’re lost in no man’s land.

Because feeling lost is also giving up — for just letting yourself be eaten by the circling vultures.

Your “why” is often an evil that keeps you pursuing.

So the goal isn’t not to struggle. Struggling is inevitable.

Struggling is baked into the process.

In fact, every writer struggles. Every. Single. One.

The goal is to keep writing despite all the struggle. And that’s a lot easier if you have a clear “why.” It gives you something to hold onto when doubt creeps in and the work feels impossible. Without a “why,” you’re a lost person. But your “why” doesn’t have to be lofty or world-changing, glamorous.

What does a “why” look like?

You don’t have to cure cancer with your blog posts. You don’t have to stop global warming with your novels. You don’t have to work through trauma or find yourself or whatever. And your “why” most doesn’t need to be a pretentious “I write because I can’t not write,” as if writing was a bodily function.

But your “why” needs to be something that keeps you going. It needs to be something that propels you forward when the excitement has worn off and your fantasies of success haven’t come to fruition. For some, their “why” might be the challenge of it: “Can I make it as a writer? Let’s find out.”

It could be spite: “Someone once told me I couldn’t be a writer, and now I’m determined to prove that bastard wrong. Out of pettiness.” And for the rest, it might be something as practical as paying the bills. There’s nothing wrong with that. But if that’s the case, you’re going to have a problem.

You better start treating writing as a serious job and do whatever you gotta do to get paid.

So take a moment and figure out what your “why” is. Why do you want to write?

Again, it doesn’t need to be glamorous — it just needs to keep you going.