It is folly to ask a writer why it is he write for some, stories must be told and each tale must have an author. One does not ask why the seas must tide or if the wind must blow. As those who take a pen to hand knows that their words are life.
As earth is nourished by the rain and fed by sun thus the writer feeds upon upon the words he writes like a dog in chains. The thirst he feels for printed page is as akin to lust it sinks it's teeth in while he's young and turns to wine with age.
So, writing is a way of life with ink flowing through his veins where each moment is a passing tale and each morning is a new line.