Why I Write
On saving myself...
Stephen King writes 1,000 words a day.
Sometimes more.
And yeah, I can do more.
The best Iâve ever done is 5,000 in one sitting.
When itâs flowing, writing doesnât even feel like writing.
Itâs like conscious dreaming.
Words falling out of my fingers, landing on the page like they already knew where they were going.
But then my mind chimes in:
âHe started when he was, what, 19? Youâre 38. Thatâs 19 years. 365 days x 19 = 7,000. Heâs millions of words ahead of you. Probably 10+ books.â
And suddenly Iâm spiralling into some weird comparison contest I never signed up for.
Why do I do that?
Why do we do that?
It's like staring at people on Instagram who are better-looking and thinking, "God, I'm behind."
But here's the truth:
Writing is the only thing thatâs ever made sense to me.
And still, I lack the discipline.
Even 1,000 words a day of anything, is better than nothing.
What if I just showed up every day and wrote?
No promises. No swearing before God and heaven.
No âthis time itâs different.â
Just words.
Just read. Write.
Write. Read.
Donât overthink it. Donât even record it. Just do it.
Because the output is the proof.
Words are the work.
Theyâre the measure.
And the more you do, the better they get. Thatâs just math.
I want to go pro.
But why?
Because maybe, just maybe, one day, some lonely kid, like I was, will walk into a library.
Theyâll see my name on a spine:
Michael Muttiah.
Theyâll sit in a dusty corner. Among the weirdos and the old folks.
And theyâll open that bookâŚ
And for a moment,
Theyâll forget the screaming, the silence, the chaos at home.
Theyâll be transported.
Theyâll feel safe.
Like I did with Tolkien, Zahn, Gemmell, Feist, Christie, Patterson.
Books were my torchlight under the covers.
They were the only thing that told me: Youâre going to be okay.
And I want to be that voice for someone else.
Thatâs why I write.