The Greatest Reason To Write
And the stark gap between those who yearn to share stories and those who actually do
I read a statistic recently about the number of United States residents who aspire to write a book at some point in their lives. Apparently, over 80% of the country shares in that dream. Almost everyone has a book hiding inside them somewhere. Or at least, back when the study was done in the early 2000s, the ambition to write a book was so common that the bulk of the survey’s respondents identified with it.
It’s possible that, despite the dream being so popular, most of us just don’t have careers that grant us the time to explore such onerous and time-consuming side projects. It’s also possible that the number of aspiring authors has dwindled significantly since that poll was conducted. As the attention economy has taken hold, and more and more young people wish simply now to be “content creators” or “social media influencers,” it’s hard to grasp that so many of us could still intend to sit down and type out a hundred consecutive pages of material.
But despite the TikTokification of media, I’m still taken aback at how many people I meet fall within the surprising majority that the survey charted. Even in 2025, such optimistic figures may not be far from reality. After all, to be an influencer doesn’t preclude the possibility that someone has stories to tell.
In my personal life, whenever I announce that writing is my full-time career, I’ve been both humbled and shocked to learn just how infrequently others have explored the professional writing avenue themselves. In more creative circles, the odds are slightly higher. But without exception, the discrepancy between those who want to write and those who actually do is enough to raise eyebrows.
Despite the overwhelming majority of people who long to share their stories or ideas, the rate of those who follow through on any long-form linguistic tasks is dismal. While exact stats on those who start writing and then stop are difficult to pin down, some surmise that less than 10% get as far as beginning the writing process. Others suggest that only about 3% finish their first drafts, and well under 1% ever get their books published.
When we consider the gargantuan challenge of writing a book, it makes sense why so many fail or give up before they’ve reached the final steps. Even as a professional writer, the prospect of committing over 50,000 words to a single project is enough to make me wince. Yet so often, when I share with others what I do for work, among their first instincts are to confess how much they’ve always wanted to explore that road themselves. How much they crave to transform their memories into memoirs or their wisdom into books.
One of the most interesting expressions of the disparity between writers and those who hunger to write can be found in our relationship to entertainment. Among the most common archetypes in any show, novel, short story, or movie is the “brilliant/tormented author.” From Misery, The Shining, Hush, and 1408 to Adaptation, King Kong (2005), Her, and Midnight in Paris — to even TV shows like You, Bojack Horseman, and Sex and the City, the trope is all but inescapable. Growing up, the tireless representation of writers in media led me to believe the career path was relatively common. I thought that in a group of any ten professionals, there would likely be at least one who identified as “a writer.”
Now as an adult, each new time I see the writer motif repeat itself in pop-culture, I’m left wondering, “Where are all of these so-called scribes? Why does every other movie or show feature a novelist at its center when I almost never seem to encounter them outside of the digital world?” There’s a certain sense of flattery I’ve felt in our overrepresentation. Each time I see these characters embodied, I’m reminded of how important our culture still considers the roles that writers play. But it also offers an interesting showcase of the difference between who we are and what we aspire to be. Ourselves and the idealized versions of ourselves. What we do versus what we dream of doing.
Much of the magnetism in action movies stems from the vicarious thrill of imagining ourselves taking on the role of hero. Die Hard is more captivating when we see ourselves as John McClane. James Bond, Jason Bourne, and Indiana Jones movies are similar experiences for the viewers immersed in those high-octane plights.
The void that writers fill in movies seems to be equal and opposite. As with action heroes, lethal assassins, and brooding spies with gadgets, the dream of becoming a writer is far more common than its actualization. And just as we like to believe we’re brave enough to take on a barrage of bad guys when our loved ones are in danger, so many of us fancy ourselves as the kinds of people who are sharp enough to turn our experiences into words that others find persuasive, that the world would want to read.
It isn’t because writers are ubiquitous that we see them depicted in so many shows, books, and movies. It’s because it’s exciting to envision ourselves as the type who can turn wisdom and experiences into books. Who has such a command of their vocabulary that they can never be bested. Who offer quick-witted retorts when facing off against conversational foes. Who follow their dreams.
Unlike professional spies or jewel thieves, the skill-sets of these literarily-minded characters are within reach for most of us. We don’t need to swing through jungles on vines or infiltrate heavily guarded galas in order to sharpen the tools of our trade. I think much of the reason these writer characters are omnipresent is that their talents are attainable. They’re more relatable than the weapon-clad brutes who are magically immune to bullets. Audiences aren’t asked to draw from wells of bravery that few of us really have in order to put ourselves in the shoes of “the writer.”
All it takes is a keyboard, a vision, and commitment to compose the next Harry Potter. The only prerequisite for a memoir is a life that lends itself to words. Even sad or unfulfilled lives make for meaningful stories.
Ultimately, one of the greatest reasons to write is one of the very most obvious: words are the primary vehicle for ideas. While we can express ourselves through other arts, it’s rare that we can with the same pointed precision that our vocabularies provide us. We can make music or paint pictures that explore a concept— even render it with a beauty that words often fail to impart — but we can’t pull out a paintbrush or musical instrument each time that we have a thought to relay. Language is still the paramount means for communicating with one another. And when we write, we hone our ability to turn our thoughts into words. To talk.
I may struggle to set aside some personal bias, but I can hardly conceive of a more integral talent. Yet, people tend to view writing and speaking as separate entities rather than the same beast in different forms. Almost all of us speak non-stop throughout our days, averaging a remarkable 16,000 words throughout our waking hours, according to BBC. A more recent study suggests that, despite notable gaps between genders, an average of roughly 20,000 words leave our mouths daily. Given how much we rely on language, I’m sometimes astounded at how few people seem to ask themselves what a liberty it would be to navigate their lexicons more fluidly.
When we labor at our keyboards, considering how best to elucidate the ideas in our heads, we actively improve our ability to express them verbally. When we painstakingly deliberate between synonyms, we become more attuned to the multitude of ways there are to convey any thought or story. We learn that, in advancing our vocabularies, we’re given more literary crayons and can begin to color in the shades of the world that aren’t encompassed by the standard 16 or 32-pack of Crayolas.
Writing is weight training for the mind. Every sentence we wrestle into clarity strengthens the same muscles we use in discourse. The act of slowing down to find the right phrasing forces us to examine our assumptions with a level of care that conversation rarely affords us.
It gives us an opportunity to sit with the rhythm and shape of our thoughts before they leave us. Over time, that precision bleeds into how we interface with the world. The more we write, the more we discover that language isn’t just a tool for communication, but a conduit for thought itself. Refining one is refining the other. Writing isn’t a separate art form from speech, but internalized practice of it. And it’s that rehearsal that turns raw, fleeting, and formless emotion into something intentional, coherent, and human.
Maybe that’s why, even as so few people ever finish their stories, the dream remains so common. Why so many people we admire, fictional or otherwise, are authors. Writing is an act of preservation, not just of ideas, but of self. Each attempt, whether abandoned after a few pages or carried until it becomes a book, show, play, or movie, represents someone trying to make sense of the pandemonium around them. Forging the confounding wonders of life into something that transmits meaning.
Writing asks us to slow down, to think, and to articulate what most people never quite find the time or courage to communicate. It’s the clearest way to show we were here and that our thoughts, our feelings — our presence on this strange planet — mean something. And even if only a handful ever complete the stories we dream of telling, everyone who makes the attempt joins a brazen, impassioned lineage of people trying to make sense of life by putting it into words.
So perhaps the greatest reason to write isn’t the book that might one day exist, or the audience that might read it, but the subtle sharpening of mind and voice that happens every time we try to.