Why do I write?

A friend used to have posted on his computer a cryptic message: "Writing is like sex. First you do it for love. Then you do it for duty, and finally you do it for money." I liked the message another coworker had on his computer better: "I breathe, therefore I write."

Writers all like to think they have some divine gift -- insights into the human pysche that no one else has privilege to unless we enlighten them. Whatever.

Truth is most people haven't read your great novel or heard of it unless it was made into a movie. Then, they still don't know your name.

If you're a journalist, most readers don't read past the first three graphs. And your byline? Forget, they only look to see who wrote a story when they're pissed off and want to call your editor.

And blogs. I love my blogs. You would think since I write for a living, I'd find a different way to enjoy myself when I'm not "working." Wrong. But reality set in yesterday after I proudly finished my daily rant:

"Does anyone read that?" hubby asked, who has never read this blog himself.

"I think so, well...I know a couple of people do because we talk about stuff..." I said, hesitantly.

"Oh, so basically you're talking only to your friends?" hubby asked.

"I have more than a couple of friends," say I, with my writer's ego firmly insulted by now.

"Oh, I see," hubby says, walking away.

I was fuming. But I guess he's right. Is anybody reading this?