Words Are Very Unnecessary

I play with words. I trip the light fantastic with symbols and sylabic structures, and I bend the will of language to serve my whims. In this realm I put concepts into a fragrant bouquet of punctuation. I dance around the deep recesses of my brain, waltzing with the constant hum of my cortex. Writers know this feeling well. This power to create a literal landscape and draw the utterings of an imagination.

Ayn Rand is a writer. Sotting through Atlas Shrugged, I am agog with her abilities to paint the physical and emotional nuances of the terrain and characters in her book. Creating the images and logic behind a story is one thing. Being proficient enough in your craft to spin these stillbound words into a working, living novel is another thing all together.

I've been thinking about my writing. Does it torture me to do something that makes me happy, while pursuing a career in Sales and Corporate Relations? No, it does not. I am okay with writing as a hobby in the same way I looked to oenology and comic book collecting. But in those cases my pursuit of the hobby created some net gain. My 13 boxes of comics are worth thousands of dollars if I wanted to part with them. I have invested in wines and held them for five to ten years while they matured. This allowed me to drink wines that would have cost four or five times the amount I paid at their initial release.

So, what to do with this collection of words I have amassed? With three years of Livejournaling (which produced very little of substance anyway), years of poetry written during my University years, and a raft of private stories and conceptions, can I spin any of this into an income producing activity?

I am not going to stop writing if the answer above is "no". The labour of love which I set forth to every few weeks or so will continue anon. This question is a result of trying to measure the productivity of my day. Perhaps creativity cannot be measured any more than noting its abscence.

So, why do you write?