“Why I Write” by Joan Didion which appeared originally in The New York Times Book Review, 1976.
All I knew then was what I couldn’t do. All I knew then was what I wasn’t, and it took me some years to discover what I was.
Which was a writer.
By which I mean not a “good” writer or a “bad” writer but simply a writer, a person whose most absorbed and passionate hours are spent arranging words on pieces of paper…I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means….What is going on in these pictures in my mind?