Late one star-swept night, I sat hunched at my desk with dozens of papers fanned out before me, as the locusts sang by my window.   Every franticly-jotted poem, every half-realized story, and every slaved-over school paper lay in a jumble as I tried to make sense of it all.   Who could create a coherent portfolio out of such a meandering mass of the written word?   It seemed as if I had done a little of everything.   I had three or four good poems, two or three decent children's stories, one or two pieces of strange adult fiction, four second-rate attempts at journalism, and countless websites.  

Most writers, I was sure, could claim to do something in particular.   Otherwise, people wouldn't ask, "what do you write?" directly after learning that you are a writer.   Some might answer, "I'm a journalist," or, "I'm a poet."   Not me.   I usually answered with a somewhat vague, "I write about a lot of different stuff."   That statement would usually elicit a quickly diverted gaze and a hazy "oh" from most people.   Perhaps that is why writers tend to define themselves so strictly; to avoid the discomfort of the "so, you're a starving artist" moment.  

My frustration mounted higher as I rummaged through the stack of papers.   What was I going to do with my writing?   Why were my samples so eclectic?   Why did I even become writing major in the first place?   Was there something wrong with me that I couldn't stick to a particular style or subject matter?   Was I even a "real" writer at all?   Why didn't I major in business finance or biological chemistry? "Why?" I kept asking myself, "Why do I write?"

Feeling overwhelmed and discouraged, I set the alarm on my clock, puffed-out the candle flickering on my desk, and wriggled under the cool sheets of my hand-me-down bed.   I'd had enough self-contemplation for one day.  

Little did I know that as I lay silently drifting off to sleep, a locust had died in the evergreen bushes just outside my bedroom window.   The tiny insect's ghostly song rang up through the skies and around the world until it finally alighted on Mount Helicon.   There, the nine Muses awaited the locust's lost little soul, hoping for news of their earthly admirers.   

The ghostly locust finally alighted on a highly-polished marble pedestal that sat in the midst of the nine goddesses.   Finding joy at the sight of his beloved mistresses, the tiny insect began to sing about the things that he had heard during his brief life on Earth.   "Why?" he sang, "Why? Why? Why do I write?"  

The goddesses were very disturbed to hear such blasphemy being uttered from the locust's tiny mouth.   "Who could be saying such a thing?" wondered Melpomene the songstress of tragedy, "Someone has forgotten their purpose as one of our devotees!"  

"Imagine!   Being compelled to do something and not knowing why!" said Thalia, who giggled as she twirled her comic mask.  

Then, Clio, who held the scrolls of History, proclaimed, "Let us go and council to this lost soul.   Understanding, after all, is the key to illumination."   Inspired by their sister's exclamation, the goddesses agreed to find their desperate devotee and consider her grievances.

So, they granted the ghostly locust shimmering firefly wings that formed a streaking glow in the air as he flew to and fro.   "Go back," commanded Urania, "to the house of the one whose words you sang."   And with a frantic fluttering of his wings, the locust was off toward his destination as the nine goddesses followed the trail he left behind.  

There, at the end of that happy locust's shining path, the Muses stopped outside my bedroom window.   Within, between my twisted blankets, I lay slumbering, unconscious of any divine onlookers.   And so, the goddesses entered into my dreams, hoping to converse with a mere mortal, while retaining their aura of veneration and mystery.  

"Elizabeth!" they cried in union.   "Why do you write?"   Suddenly, in my dreaming mind, I found myself surrounded by nine gloriously arrayed women.

"Who are you?" I hazarded to ask, "Why are you in my dreams?"

"You certainly are one for questions, aren't you Elizabeth?" observed Polyhymnia, the Muse of sacred poetry.

Calliope, the Muse of epic poetry, stepped forward from amidst her sisters.   "First, let us pose a question to you," she said.   "Why do you write?"  

I frowned mournfully.   "I don't know anymore," I answered, "I was hoping you could tell me.   After all, aren't you the ones who inspire writers?"

"Yes," replied Calliope, "and I myself have inspired you many times."

"You have?" I asked.

"Of course," stated Calliope.   "Whenever you write about grand adventures and dashing heroes, that is my influence."

"Oh yes!" I exclaimed.   "Some of my favorite stories are about magic and myth!"   I smiled to myself as I remembered one of my best creations.   "Perhaps that is what I am meant to write about."

"You are forgetting that I have inspired you as well," said Erato, the Muse of love poetry.   "How many times," she continued, "have you sat down after a wonderful date and jotted a poem about the twinkling it left in your heart."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," I apologized.   "You are correct.   Although sometimes I incorporate love with other themes, there are times when I devote myself entirely to romance."

"But not all your stories have been happy and victorious tales either," commented Melpomene, the Muse of tragedy.   "I have known you to write very effective tales that do not end well for the protagonist."

I folded my hands in apology.   "Again, I must admit that sometimes a happy ending can be a little cliché."

"Cliché?   Did you just say that happy endings are cliché?" cried Thalia, the Muse of comedy.   "Some of the best endings I ever inspired you to write are happy endings to happy stories!"

I thumped my hand on my forehead.   "Oh my gosh! I've done it again!"   I shrugged in confusion, "You are right as well, sometimes I feel like too much tragedy in a story can be monotonous and depressing.   There are days when I need to contemplate the lighter side of life."

"And what, pray tell, is wrong with being serious once in a while?" interjected Polyhymnia, the Muse of sacred poetry.   "I've certainly known you to write about the meaning of life, and other such philosophical subjects haven't I?   In fact, isn't this conversation we're having right now philosophical in nature?"

"Polyhymnia is right," pointed out her sister, Urania, the Muse of astronomy and the sciences, "Elizabeth has always been interested in understanding not only the meaning of things, but also how the world works and interacts."

I nodded my head in agreement.   "That is true as well.   I have always been the curious sort."

Urania smiled, "Yes and the thesises for your school papers are inspired by me, to encourage your pursuit of education," she said, with a gesture toward my school books.   "I also push you to pursue your publishing skills, which aid in the diffusion of knowledge and information."

"And don't forget" interjected Clio, Muse of History, "that part of gaining wisdom is learning from the past.   Your journalistic writing helps those around you understand events and situations that have happened in the recent past, and encourages them to use that information in the future."

"Well, I now have a rather complete listing of what I write about and who inspired it," I pointed out to the nine goddesses, "but I don't feel like I'm any closer to figuring out why I write."

At this statement, the Muse of music, Euterpe, stepped forward.   "Well, Elizabeth," she said, "what do you hope to do with your college degree?   You don't plan to attend school forever, do you?"  

"Well, no," I admitted.   "I like school, and I enjoy learning, but homework is becoming very tiresome.   I guess I just want to move on with my life."

"Alright," said Euterpe, "but you still haven't told me what you are going to do."

I blushed, embarrassed that I had so obviously missed the point.   "Oh, well, I guess I want job that uses my writing and publishing skills, pays me enough money to live comfortably, and allows me enough leisure time so that I can write creative pieces while I relax at home."

"So" said Euterpe, "you basically just want a job, money, and freedom.   If that is the case, why didn't you just major in biological chemistry?   I'm sure you could have made a lot more money with that kind of training."

"Well," I replied, "It's not entirely about the money.   I want to do something that I enjoy.   I don't want to become married to a job that I hate just for a massive paycheck."

"So, you enjoy writing then?" asked the goddess.

"Of course," I firmly stated.  

Euterpe gave me a pointed look. "Well, if you picture yourself writing at work, then why would you want to write in your leisure time as well?"

I spread my hands. "Well, I guess I just like writing that much.   I enjoy the process of it.   I love knowing that I am creating something new and original.   And, there is nothing better than pursuing an art that you are good at."

"Exactly," stated the Muse.   "In that way, writing is just like music.   It is pleasurable to create something that is pleasant to the ear and there is a pride in knowing that you have accomplished something original and stretched your facilities to their limits."

"Yes," I agreed, "writing is a joy for me." I smiled to myself as I remembered the countless nights I spend draped over my keyboard in a fit of creative frenzy. "That is the answer to my question.   I write because it is a joy!"  

I babbled on in a rush of self-discovery.   "I love the process of it!   That is why my writing samples are so eclectic!   I love to write on certain subjects, but making stories, poems, websites, and newspaper articles is not the most satisfying part.   No, at the end of the day, I love to say that I did something well."

"So" said Terpsichore, the Muse of dancing, "you are after fame then?"  

"Well," I admitted, "I must admit that fame and fortune sounds appealing.   Who wouldn't love to have a mansion full of cash and ten shining sports cars?"   I shrugged my shoulders, "But at the same time, I am not arrogant enough to believe that I have any good chance of becoming a well-known author."

"Does that make you want to stop writing then?" asked Terpsichore.

"I have to say, it is a little discouraging to think that I will never be paid much for my writing; creative or otherwise.   But no, that thought does not stop me from writing."

"Then," asked Terpsichore, "why do you try to publish your more creative pieces?   Such works have no logical value to readers or to yourself other than the personal pleasure you take in creating them."

"True," I answered, "but when the excitement of creation is over, it is a thrill to see the reactions of others to your work."

Terpsichore fingered the strings on her lyre. "And what sort of reaction do you hope for?" she asked.  

"Why, I hope that my readers will enjoy my work as much as I enjoyed writing it." I replied.

"There you have it, Elizabeth!" exclaimed Terpsichore.   "In this way, reading is like dancing.   The writer and musician create for joy, while the reader and the dancer react with joy.   When both of these pieces fall into place, the joy experience by everyone is doubled!"

I smiled at her revelation, but then quickly furrowed my brows.   "Then why did I ever forget what I liked about writing?" I asked.

"You stopped taking joy in your work," explained Euterpe.   "You were inspired by all the Muses at once and instead of enjoying the range of interests that you acquired, you allowed others to make you feel guilty about their inability to pigeon-hole you.   This guilt, of course led to frustration and dissatisfaction with your work."

"So," I concluded, "the Muses can inspire a writer to create, but they cannot limit their inspirations to a certain set of specific themes.   Otherwise, there would be no joy for the writer in putting the pieces together."

"Well, then, Elizabeth," asked Calliope, "Why do you write?"

I grinned to myself as I realized that I finally knew the answer. "For joy!   I write for joy." I replied.  

The next morning, after I had crawled out of bed for a cup of coffee, I re-discovered the disheveled stack of papers that had troubled me the night before.   I smiled as I pawed through various styles and genres of my writing, as I prepared to pack them up in a folder and tote them with me to school.   I knew that if someone asked me "what do you write?"   I would ask them, "What do ya got?"