Why I Write
On saving myself...
Stephen King writes 1,000 words a day.
Sometimes more.
And yeah, I can do more.
The best I’ve ever done is 5,000 in one sitting.
When it’s flowing, writing doesn’t even feel like writing.
It’s 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:
“He started when he was, what, 19? You’re 38. That’s 19 years. 365 days x 19 = 7,000. He’s millions of words ahead of you. Probably 10+ books.”
And suddenly I’m 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 that’s 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 “this time it’s different.”
Just words.
Just read. Write.
Write. Read.
Don’t overthink it. Don’t even record it. Just do it.
Because the output is the proof.
Words are the work.
They’re the measure.
And the more you do, the better they get. That’s 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.
They’ll see my name on a spine:
Michael Muttiah.
They’ll sit in a dusty corner. Among the weirdos and the old folks.
And they’ll open that book…
And for a moment,
They’ll forget the screaming, the silence, the chaos at home.
They’ll be transported.
They’ll 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: You’re going to be okay.
And I want to be that voice for someone else.
That’s why I write.
