As I was puttering around in my think tank—better known as the kitchen—I found myself reflecting on what motivates me to do the things I do around the house. Wiping the counter, watering the plants, rearranging the spice cabinet for the third time this month… all simple tasks, yet each one seemed to stir something deeper. And then, as it often does, my mind drifted to writing.

I never realized how much motivation my late husband gave me until he was gone. That twinkle in his eye—half encouragement, half mischief—kept me moving in positive directions. He didn’t have to say much. A nod, a smile, or that gentle, knowing look was enough to pull me back to my desk, back to my ideas, back to the page. Even my writing had his fingerprints on it. Now, in the quiet of the house, I’ve had to rediscover what pushes me forward.

So what motivates a writer to write? The answer is rarely just one thing.

Sometimes it’s memory. Words become a way to hold on to what time tries to soften. Writing lets us revisit a moment, breathe life into it again, and honor the people who shaped us. In that sense, every sentence becomes a small act of remembrance.

Other times, it’s curiosity. Writers are natural observers, always asking “Why?” Why do people act the way they do? Why does grief arrive in waves? Why does a single spark of inspiration appear at the most inconvenient moment—like when our hands are covered in bread dough? Writing helps us chase those questions down, even if answers remain slippery.

There’s also the compulsion to make sense of things. Life doesn’t come with neat chapters or tidy endings, but writers instinctively try to create order out of chaos. A messy emotion becomes a paragraph. A confusing experience becomes a story. Writing, in many ways, is the mind’s way of exhaling.

And sometimes, motivation is simply the desire to connect. When we write, we hope someone out there reads our words and thinks, Yes. I’ve felt that too. That shared recognition is a powerful fuel.

As I stood in my kitchen, letting my thoughts simmer alongside the soup on the stove, I realized my motivation hasn’t really disappeared—it’s just changed shape. My husband’s twinkle may be gone, but the warmth it sparked remains. It urges me toward the page, whispering that stories still matter, and so does the act of telling them.

What motivates you?

Thank you so much for your continued readership and support. Until next week…Blessings and Peace!

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