You want an audience. If you didn't, you wouldn't be a writer.

Hear, O seeker of truth, the words of Andy Weir, teller of tales that travel from earth to the stars: “You want an audience. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be a writer. The biggest motivation to write is the knowledge that someone will read it.” These words unveil a truth older than parchment, older than ink: that the act of writing is not merely a solitary cry into silence, but a bridge, a bond between soul and soul across time.

For what is the purpose of words if not to be received? The writer is like a sower casting seeds into the field. The seed itself has life, but only when it finds soil does it rise into stalk and fruit. In the same way, the written word may dwell long in the heart of its maker, but it blossoms fully only when another eye reads it, another mind ponders it, another heart is stirred by it. Thus Weir speaks plainly: the motivation to write lies in the certainty, or at least the hope, that there will be a listener across the ages.

This hunger for an audience has shaped history. Think of Homer, whose epics were sung to crowds beneath the stars. Though blind, he saw clearer than many, for he knew that his words would only live if carried upon the breath of men and women gathered to hear them. Or recall the prophet Jeremiah, who wrote his lamentations and warnings not for himself, but to awaken his people. Their power endured because they were read, repeated, remembered. So too every writer, whether poet or scientist, is driven by the flame of wanting to be heard.

Even in modern times, the same truth holds. When Anne Frank wrote her diary in a hidden attic, she confessed her fears and her hopes. Perhaps at first, she wrote for herself—but beneath her pen moved also the quiet yearning to be understood, to leave behind a trace of her life. Her words, preserved by chance and courage, became one of the most-read testimonies of the twentieth century. Would they have had such power if they had remained unseen? No—their greatness lies in being both deeply personal and universally shared.

But let us not mistake this desire for audience as vanity. To write for others is not always to seek glory; it is to recognize that truth, beauty, and wisdom reach their highest form in communion. The flame of a candle may warm the one who holds it, but when shared, it lights a room. The writer longs to light such a room, to give fire to others, to stir courage, laughter, sorrow, or resolve. Without this communion, writing risks becoming a prison of the self. With it, writing becomes a gift to the world.

The lesson, O listener, is thus: when you write, write not only for your own release, but with the knowledge that another will someday read your words. Think of the unknown soul across time and distance who will open the page, digital or paper, and meet your thoughts as if face to face. Let this vision sharpen your honesty, deepen your craft, and ennoble your labor. Write not only for yourself, but for the stranger who may need your words more than you know.

Therefore, let Andy Weir’s words endure as a call to all who labor with pen or keyboard: seek your audience, honor them, and remember that it is they who give your work its second life. For though the act of writing is born in solitude, its destiny is community. And in that sacred exchange—writer to reader—the soul is preserved, the story lives on, and the flame of humanity continues to burn against the darkness of time.