Why I Write

There are drug addicts. There are alcohol addicts. And then there are writing addicts. I belong to the latter.

People sometimes ask me: “Why do you write?” It sounds like a simple question — until you sit with it long enough to realize there’s far more to it than you’d ever consciously acknowledged.

So I took the time to reflect. When I first started writing as a teenager, I never looked for reasons. I simply wrote — because it felt natural, because it expressed something essential about who I was, because it represented me.

Taking a more deliberate look at what actually drives me, I arrived at a few answers.

Building New Worlds

I’ve always loved building. As a kid, I spent countless hours constructing new worlds from Lego pieces — and that joy never left me when the Lego sets did. I found myself hungry for new creative outlets: painting, modeling, music composition, writing. Each had its appeal, but writing was the one that truly stayed.

What I discovered is that writing lets me build worlds while leaving generous space for readers to inhabit them on their own terms. I can sketch the broad strokes of a distant universe, but the details — the textures, the colors, the emotional weight — those emerge from each reader’s own imagination. In that sense, I’m not just building a world; I’m offering a sandbox. The reader brings their own materials.

It’s not unlike video games: the developer creates the setting and defines the rules, but it’s the player who breathes life and meaning into the experience, often traveling further than the developer ever imagined. Writers and readers share that same symbiosis — it is, by its very nature, never one-sided.

Playing With “What If?”

Some scenarios can never unfold in real life — or if they could, the probability is vanishingly small. Writing dissolves those constraints. It lets both writer and reader explore the consequences of events that reality would never allow.

In one of my stories, I asked myself: what would happen if a country sealed its borders and decreed that prospective parents could only conceive a child if they found someone willing to sell or donate their life?

The only true limitation is imagination.

Entertaining People

Life is not always easy. It comes with challenges, hardships, and its fair share of drama. Creative work — books, games, music, art in all its forms — offers a genuine escape from daily burdens. That escape might last a few moments or hundreds of hours, but good art reliably makes people’s lives richer. To some it offers entertainment; to others, hope and reassurance; to others still, the rare and precious sense of being seen.

In my recent story, I depicted a Japanese woman navigating life as an immigrant in Western Europe, with all the complexity that entails. If my stories leave even one reader slightly happier than they were before turning the first page, I consider the effort worthwhile.

Creating a Legacy

At a certain point in life, the question becomes unavoidable: what will I leave behind? For some it’s a business, for others a record of quiet good deeds, for others their children. For me, it’s all of the above (well, maybe except the business part) — and stories.

I’m proud to be raising two children who I hope will contribute meaningfully to this world. And I’m equally glad to be leaving behind a handful of stories that might engage someone, on some ordinary afternoon, and make it just a little better.

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What I actively try to avoid is imposing my own perspective. I have no interest in telling people how to think or what to conclude. My stories are more like a buffet — you choose what appeals to you and decide for yourself whether it satisfies.

All art is an expression of thought. It can be used for good or for ill. I sincerely hope my work lands on the right side of that line — that it offers something meaningful, something entertaining, and enough breathing room for the reader to simply enjoy themselves.

Whether I succeed at that, only time will tell.