writing

Why do you write?
It's this question, or more so the answer to this question that feeds my inner critic and halts my writing dead in its tracks.
This past week, the subject of writing has come up a number of times, in a number of ways, from a number of people. First D commented that I should be journaling more online (separate thing from this) and generally writing more. A few days later AJ laughs at what to me is one more oddity of my life, but one I've managed to spin and amuse her with - she says I should be writing about this stuff. Later, I read that the author of a blog I frequent has taken a hiatus - to write more. Then I get an essay to proof from another friend, this is big. This gets my attention.
We used to keep each other writing like we kept each other walking or running. It was she I spent a week with in CO - fueling my inner critic. Well, I was supposed to be learning all kinds of writing tidbits from acclaimed author Dorothy Allison. Instead my inner critic was given a week long buffet to feed on - a buffet of how I was not so qualified, inspired, interesting or worthy. No, Ms. Allison didn't say much if any of that, though if you've met her or heard her speak it would not surprise you if she did. Regardless, that's the message I got, and I've not written since. Well, I blog and I occasionally do the online "journal" thingy. The inner critic is the reigning champion and I'm not up for a fight.
Besides - why do I write? Why do you write? Why do they write? Who? They - those authors and writers I met so many of in 2004-2005 - so many of them said they write "because they have to."
Ah, more nourishment for inner critic. I don't have to write. I have nothing internally driving me to write other than a desire to do so. The same desire I have to learn to paint or start my own business someday. Someday. I don't HAVE TO do anything except eat and sleep and breathe. Past that I'd add on exercise because I really do feel my body insists I do that. But I do not feel incomplete if I do not write. I do not have to write.
I failed the first test. The first test all those writers haughtily gave to wannabes at their feet. Not all of them, but most. I hated hearing it. I wanted someone to say they wrote because they were good at it or because it was the livelihood they fell into. I wanted something attainable. I felt immediately removed from the writers' club. Add to that my novice abilities and general stick-in-the-mud personality when it comes to these matters (trying new things, pushing forward, etc.) and I was done, finished, and glad for it.
But now the topic comes back. There's a knock at the door, then another and then another. I hear it. But I still have only a novice's ability in my opinion. Why? Because I'm not schooled in writing and I'm all about needing the rules given to me before I begin. I cannot learn while I go! I'll mess it up. Besides, I have nothing to write about. I live a most uninteresting life and can barely find enough tidbits to fill this blog let alone more. And what or who am I writing for and in what format? Essay, journal, article - for myself or others or what? Ugh. How about nothing for anyone. And last but not least - there's the question. The one the inner critic always uses when I think I've gotten around the other issues she presents.
Why do you write?