“I write because I am vain and writing is a conversation with my vanity. I write because I want to be loved. I write because the desire for fame and fortune is the trick of the soul that compels us. I write because words play in my head. I write for the experience, for the pleasure. I write because I am mature and childish. I write to hone morality and immorality. To create, to exist, to express” Anonymous

“Inadequate, pimpled and single; the spewings and rantings of very drunk people late at night’. These are words that have been used before to describe bloggers and blogging.

Last week, Ciku Muiruri somewhere here wrote an article that labels bloggers as SODs. A week before that, I read a tweet from someone I follow, complaining about the number of blogs that are opening up every minute. If I had the right words, I would quote him, but I will paraphrase. It was something close to people visiting wordpress, opening up a page, narrating a few of their daily ordeals by trapping them into uncreative phrases , trying to be funny whilst at it, then calling themselves writers at the end of the day. I come here in the writer’s defence. Him/ she who sits down and types a few or so creative and uncreative, funny and flat words and uploads them on a blog.

There are times when I wonder if cows understand how good they taste when they are fried. I do not understand how they miss the succulence of a piece of fried beef. I bet too that if they ever wonder about us, they wonder how we overlook the taste of grass…how generous we are not to chop grass into tiny pieces and serve it on our dinners.

These two; the grass eater and the beef devourer, can never understand the deliciousness of the other’s diet. The same way, I fail to understand why people wonder why others write. I wonder about people who wonder about writers, just as drug junkies wonder about people who wonder about them; an alcoholic and a smoker who wonders about you who preaches against it; or even a prostitute who wonders about the morality constructors. For all these, it becomes difficult to prove to them the otherwise of life.

I like to look at the world as an entangled mass of hair that has just been washed. Writing is a comb that detangles this mess. Sometimes the hair is left straight and intact, with a few strands of hair lost, other times a good percentage of the hair falls off. Regardless though, a comb is necessary for entangled hair, the same way writing is necessary, be it gutter writing or tolerable writing.

Many of us readers have probably gone through a blog and thought; what a perpetrator of morality-what an immoral writer. I do agree; there are blogs I would recommend to someone, and there are those that I would not point a recommendation finger at. However, I would stand far from labelling the not so recommended blogger as a poor soul that needs to be touched by the hand of Jesus. Whether one writes under a pseudonym or whether they type in bad handwriting, still, they have written. For that, I respect them.

Why? You ask. I know what writing does to a soul. It is therapy! It cures a cropping madness in you that not even the best tranquilisers in the world can bring to peace. For those of us who are insomniacs, writing is sleep. It closes our eyelids and we dream through our words.

It is a means to be heard. Where people have mouths, writers have pens. Through writing, we manage to escape from the world. People talk about us when we write. Some adore us. Some loathe us. Still, someone sees us. We write because we are narcissistic. Writing is a ‘swag’. It is cool to have your bio read writer and blogger. Thus, we write!

Without it, we can’t live…if we do, we shall exist like unwatered plants whose leaves wither, suffering without dying.

We do it to vent, to share, to laugh at ourselves. It is the only best way we know how. We do so for the “Desire to seem clever or not, to be talked about, to be remembered after death,”

To make you listen to us. To have you see it our way. To force you to change your mind.

We say good things. We say bad things. Sometimes you will love us. Other times you will hate us.

Let us be. Sometimes we will be the heroes, other times the villains.

Kindly allow us to wear the veil of writing. It is the only way we can show our faces to you. Love us or hate us. We shall accept the criticism.