That is an excellent question.
I would have to say, because I cannot sing.
Music has been, is, and will always be my greatest passion; however, I lack the dexterity required to play an instrument professionally and, even if I did, since I cannot sing I would never be able to express myself in song.
Writing a song for another to sing is something that I have considered, but rejected; I need to be the messenger of my own thoughts. Another would be unable, in my not-so-humble opinion, to do justice to them. Alas, just how else is a poor girl to express herself?
My brief attempts at fictional writing only resulted in short stories, never revised that were ‘completed,’ then forgotten, and served nothing. To write a novel was a notion considered to be pure fantasy; I could never put in that level of effort. Such an endeavour takes months, sometimes even years. In spite of this perceived roadblock, the thoughts persisted, but remained generally ignored.
Then, late last year I stumbled over the, already in progress, NaNoWriMo competition. The aim was, merely, to write a fictional work of at least 50,000 words between the start, and finish, of November. I believe it was already around the tenth of the month before I discovered it, and even though only two thirds of the time remained I decided I had nothing to suffer by taking up the challenge.
In twenty days I made fifty thousand words. Perhaps, I thought, there was the capacity here to write a full-length tome after all. In December, I finished the first draft of the novel, 80,000 words. Then, began the editing, and that was when my soul had fully been sold to the devil of literary composition.
Exercising the diligence my document deserved required that I refresh my skills of language; principles such as alliteration and onomatopoeia returned to my vocabulary. My standards and style of writing evolved with each revision until my manuscript resembled the first draft only in plot; each sentence and paragraph had been reworked to such a point as to almost appear as if they had been composed by someone else.
I started to admire my own work. In fact, I found brief parts of it to be rather enchanting. Revisiting the previous days work became an effort of enjoyment, not a toil of torment. I realized that I was singing; grammar was my arrangement and the words were my notes. Cadences, arranged by commas, provided the rhythm. I was not merely writing a book, I was composing a literary symphony as relevant as any work.
Thus, I will continue. I will finish my first masterpiece, and polish it until it shines. Whether or not it finds a home with a publisher will remain to be seen, but is, perhaps, a redundancy; I will have both sung, and heard my first true song. That is all that matters.
Anyhow, enough of this distraction; I must resume my seemingly endless revision.