We write because we feel compelled to.
There are those among us who are looking for something and know exactly what it is: they wait for it to find them, to trace its way back to them through their printed digital words like a lighthouse beacon. And they'll keep writing until it finds them. Weeks, or months, or years, or entire lifetimes...
There are those who don't know what they're looking for: they write so that it will come looking for them. Their words will ring out into the void and when their calling finally manifests, they'll know it on sight like a twin separated at birth. Once joined, their journey will come to its end...the need will fade.
There are those who write because they don't know what else to do: scenarios and visions fill their heads and force their souls to sway and dance to a Pied Piper only they can hear. Their writing is a cycle of madness that is born in a blind fury of words that are scraped down to their core and built back up. The bones are fleshed out and turned into giants before being crippled by a single key. When the pages are finally revealed, there's no target in mind, no mystery waiting to be revealed, just the calm before the next storm.
Everything they do is the culmination of a single moment back-written to fit our perceptions.
They write because we compel them to.