It begins as a curiosity. An interest. We write a little, and find we enjoy it. In time, we share what we’ve written with others. We find we enjoy that, too, especially when those with whom we share seem to like what we’ve written.

With practice, we find that it’s not only enjoyable, but we’re actually pretty good at it. We share with a slightly larger audience, at a writers’ group, on a blog, on Facebook.

We enlarge our dreams: bestseller, acclaim and fame, money.

We submit to magazines, to publishers, we self-publish.

We learn the process.

We fail.

Many times.

The real writers continue.

Until one day, it occurs to us, the real reason we write. We write, quite simply, because we must.

We would write if no one ever read our work.

We would write if we made no money; even if we lost money, investing in the tools, training, marketing, consultants, advertising, whatever.

We write, hoping to find an audience, but that is not the most important thing. Nor is the occasional joy and fulfillment. Neither is it the promise of “success.”

We write because we are writers.