The question comes to mind when you walk into one of those mega bookstores that are quickly disappearing. The extinct Borders, the slowly vanishing Barnes and Nobles. Thousands and thousands of books, millions of pages, billions of words. Somewhere in there someone must have said what you are trying to say.
The internet dwindles a writer’s significance even further. With no trees to be cut down for pages, no printing presses that need to be run, the gates are open for the dilettantes. It can overwhelm you to think of what you could possibly have to add to the incalculable amount of text available. On this site alone I’ve written over 500 posts represented by hundreds of thousands of words. At this point I’m probably repeating myself repeating myself. When I’m not surely I’m just regurgitating what one of my fellow monkeys with a keyboard in front of them was hoping might accidentally turn out to be Hamlet.
So why write?
The only suitable answer I can think of is why not?