Why do I write? I guess that’s been asked of every writer. I don’t know. It isn’t any massive compulsion. I don’t feel, you know, God dictated that I should write. You know, thunder rents the sky and a bony finger comes down from the clouds and says, “You. You write. You’re the anointed.” I never felt that. I suppose it’s part compulsion, part a channel for what your brain is churning up.
But I don’t subscribe to the “Know Thyself” theory. I’m afraid that if I started to ponder who I am and what I am, I might not like what I find. So, I’d rather go along with this sense of illusion that I’m a neutral beast going along through life doing everything that’s preordained. I’m out of control anyway, so why fight it. I suppose we think euphemistically that all writers write because they have something to say that is truthful and honest and pointed and important. And I suppose I subscribe to that, too. But God knows when I look back over thirty years of professional writing, I’m hard-pressed to come up with anything that’s important. Some things are literate, some things are interesting, some things are classy, but very damn little is important.
Rod Serling during his final interview on March 4, 1975, just a few months prior to his death.
Mr. Serling died on June 28, 1975, of a series of heart attacks. He died while on the operating table. Today, June 28, 2017, is the 42nd anniversary of his death. Had he lived to today, he would be 92.