I read a blog last night (thanks, Mit!) in which a writer shared her (I think it's a her) experiences with being a longtime unpublished writer ("I wrote seven novels over twelve years before I found an agent. It was nearly fourteen years before I eventually sold a book"), and forgetting why she wrote in the first place. It was a very honest, telling post. And it's just what I need for those times when I get impatient, when my friends and others ask me whether I've been published, why it's taking so long, etc. It put things in perspective.
Why I write? Because I can't not do it.
My writing partner felt the same way today. After acing her two exams (you go, girl!), she sat in the frigid library, her fingers like popcicles, and she added her words and insights to yesterday's 50 pages because she couldn't not do it. She needed to get it on the page.
That's what it's all about.
Of course, that's simplifying it, but still. It's one reason. I'm sure I will write about others. Over and over again. It's an eternal love.
And that's good.