Why I Write.

Yes, I have very obviously copied the title from George Orwell's famous essay, who was trying to answer the same question. So if any of you try to point out my plagiarist tendencies, I own up to this title-cheat one right now!
I've been reading literature and writing all my life. In 1st grade, I narrated the story of some cunning fox and pretty peacock and won the Best Storyteller prize. In 2nd grade, when the teachers would give me a word to make a sentence with, I almost always came up with a great one. In 6th grade, when I was asked to be editor of the junior school magazine, of course I enjoyed myself. Later on in high school, any script or speech or short story needed to be written, and I was assigned that duty without a second thought.

The reason I'm writing all this, and making myself sound like some Literature pedant, is simple.
I'm trying to figure out why I love words this much. Why I inherently feel like I have to make sentences of these words, why I want to put my thoughts to paper, know the correct usage of 'whom', why I think some words are beautiful and others ugly, why I'm fascinated by various schools of writing, why I want to use the word perfidiousness in a sentence. (Haha, the word comes as a spelling error as I write this!)

I'm unable to figure out what draws me to it.
Am I just too much of a lazy bum to do much else?
Do I just want to seem more articulate and well read than the next person?
Is this my way of fitting in, or standing out?

Or, is the romantic in me, just searching in vain for a more beautiful answer to this question?

Much excogitation on this subject has brought out the sesquipedalian in me, and with not much equanimity, I'd like to profess my unequivocal discontent at not having arrived at an answer that satisfies me.

Blah blah on.