When I considered why I wanted to start this blog, my first thoughts were of George Orwell’s piece Why I Write. Orwell, in his trademark candor, laid out four general motives that he believed animated every writer in varying degrees. So instead of me trying to find the words to explain why I write (or blog), I’ll just let Orwell explain:
They exist in different degrees in every writer, and in any one writer the proportions will vary from time to time, according to the atmosphere in which he is living. They are:
i) Sheer egoism. Desire to seem clever, to be talked about, to be remembered after death, to get your own back on the grown-ups who snubbed you in childhood, etc., etc. It is humbug to pretend this is not a motive, and a strong one. Writers share this characteristic with scientists, artists, politicians, lawyers, soldiers, successful businessmen — in short, with the whole top crust of humanity. The great mass of human beings are not acutely selfish. After the age of about thirty they almost abandon the sense of being individuals at all — and live chiefly for others, or are simply smothered under drudgery. But there is also the minority of gifted, willful people who are determined to live their own lives to the end, and writers belong in this class. Serious writers, I should say, are on the whole more vain and self-centered than journalists, though less interested in money.
(ii) Aesthetic enthusiasm. Perception of beauty in the external world, or, on the other hand, in words and their right arrangement. Pleasure in the impact of one sound on another, in the firmness of good prose or the rhythm of a good story. Desire to share an experience which one feels is valuable and ought not to be missed. The aesthetic motive is very feeble in a lot of writers, but even a pamphleteer or writer of textbooks will have pet words and phrases which appeal to him for non-utilitarian reasons; or he may feel strongly about typography, width of margins, etc. Above the level of a railway guide, no book is quite free from aesthetic considerations.
(iii) Historical impulse. Desire to see things as they are, to find out true facts and store them up for the use of posterity.
(iv) Political purpose. — Using the word ‘political’ in the widest possible sense. Desire to push the world in a certain direction, to alter other peoples’ idea of the kind of society that they should strive after. Once again, no book is genuinely free from political bias. The opinion that art should have nothing to do with politics is itself a political attitude.
All four of Orwell’s motives, in various degrees at different times, animate me to write. For example, If I had to choose I’d say aesthetic enthusiasm followed closely by historical impulse are the strongest motives in me at the moment. But maybe that’s just sheer egoism to say that.
As for political purpose, well, as Waldo Emerson said: “You can no more keep out of politics than you can keep out of the frost.” Regardless of how much distance one tries to keep or how much “objectivity” one tries to maintain, It’s impossible to affirm, criticize, or comment on any public policy, debate, proposal or political figure without appearing to take sides. The best any writer can do is write what he or she feels or thinks is the case based on the available facts and evidence at the time. In the Orwellian sense, my main political purpose is the hope that maybe something I write may alter someone’s idea about the kind of society (or way of life) we should strive for.
Lastly, there is one additional motive for writing glanced over by Orwell. And that’s legacy. So much of who we are — what we think and feel — is trapped inside our head. When we pass from this world there is nothing left but the memories of us in pictures, videos, and stories told by others. When we’re gone our material possessions are dispersed and sold off. But by writing (blogging) we leave behind, locked in computer servers around the world long after we’re gone, our thoughts, opinions, concerns, loves, dislikes and traces of all the other intentional qualities that really make up the essence of who we are. We may be gone physically, but our thoughts and feelings (in words) can be captured forever. The Reaper may steal us from this world, but we can leave behind for our children, grandchildren, friends and future generations these distant echoes of our essential spirit to remember us by. As Saint Bernard of Clairvaux wrote: “Every word that you write is a blow that smites the Devil.”