Being honest

I was asked why I write, and I didn’t have an answer.

“Because I like it” didn’t suffice, it wasn’t believable, it wasn’t good enough, but I settled for it.

When pondering the question I realized that I marvel at other’s talent in writing—those who are famous and dead and those who are friends and living. I appreciate the beauty of words, and my soul feels full at elegance on a page. I envy and I desire. Words—written words—make me feel something I wouldn’t otherwise experience or know. Is that good enough? But I realized in this that enjoying other's writing did not still answer the question. Why do I write? Because I wish I could be what others are? How do I put down into words what other people can so effortlessly and extravagantly?

I am average and I envy.

I enjoy music, but am not musical. “I can appreciate good music, though,” I reassure myself.

I enjoy cooking, but am not well versed myself. I can appreciate the craft of other’s art, though.

I enjoy writing, but compare myself negatively to other’s brilliant poetry. I appreciate their work, though.

Is appreciating someone else’s work enough of a reason to continue in my own?

Is “because I like it” good enough? Is this what I am even asking of myself?