Why Do I Write?
Okay. For real, I'm going to be honest: I've been planning to write this essay for over a year now. My friend showed me her ePortfolio and when I saw the mandatory post titled "Why I Write", I froze. I had no idea why I wrote. To be funny? To process? To educate? To seem special? All the above? A year later and I'm no closer to answering that question. So a combination of absolute cluelessness and a schedule that gave me little to no time to type an essay, yielded this: my attempt at explaining the unexplainable.
The thing is, I thought this was complete shit. No, really, I did. Not in the "Oh my god, this is so bad, don't read it. I wrote it in like five seconds" but the "I have actually 20 minutes to type this, let's see how fast I can type approximately 600 words that kind of sound like English." In doing so, I accidentally hit the nail on the head. With everything I do, I have a reason. And not just a reason, but a clear, singular reason. With writing, there's an entire spectrum. A million different streams converge to this incredible, unquenchable passion that I must write, write, write, write, write.
I realized that spending time thinking of one singular reason I wrote was not only a waste of time, but a futile concept.
Thank God, I was too busy that week.
Who knows what kind of shitty, bullshit essay I would have typed otherwise.
Without further ado, here's "Why Do I Write?":
If I’m going to be completely honest, I write to escape. Cliché, said before, obvious answer, I don’t care. That is definitely the reason I write. I know this because I’m currently shaking: I have to go to work, I have an exam at six that I didn’t study for that features questions from a paper that I didn’t read. I have an advising appointment later, a couple more meetings all with a side of How The Hell Do I Have So Much To Do?
When I write, I’m allowed to pause. I’m allowed to process and think. It’s like when you get off a ride at a state fair and for a brief second you have clarity before being consumed by dizziness and the scent of popcorn and deep fried Snickers. I’m able to look out the window and really think. Not like biochemistry thinking, that’s polluted with proteins, enzymes, signaling cascades, and membrane potentials. But writing thinking, where I can pause, press rewind, and breathe.
I used to write for class. I used to write to build stories out of nothing. I used to write to be funny. I used to write for attention. I guess I don’t believe these statements anymore. Not that I’m not creative, ambitious, or imaginative, but I think writing has taken on a new meaning for me. I guess the best way to describe it is I crave permanence. A constant theme in my life is thinking that someone is slowly pressing down on the fast forward button. Writing allows me to pause, even for a second, reflect, and jump back on the carousel.
Why do I write? Well, I guess writing also lets me vent. It lets me cry. It listens. Whenever I get drunk (often) and emotional (very often), I take on the challenge of writing out my feelings in the most dramatic way possible. There is a Microsoft Word document on my computer that has three entries from when I went off the deep end. Did it save my life? Probably not. But it felt so good to type out each and every word, drunk and teary-eyed, and hide it deep within my computer’s archives.
But not everything I write is a secret, so that can’t be the whole reason, right? As a kid I would walk around the woods around my house and tell stories. Holy shit, were they epic. Fifteen-part sagas complete with defeats, betrayals, conquests, and most importantly, love. (Imagine an effeminate nine-year-old boy walking through the forest telling stories to the animals and my entire personality today makes perfect sense.) But, I grew out of that. I stopped storytelling, I stopped speaking out loud to process things, and I moved to writing. I went from fifteen-part fantasy sagas woodland creatures craved the next installment to, to writing essays in classes. I went from the accepting environment of the woods surrounding my house to the accepting environment of my English classes.
My seventh grade English teacher was the first person to connect the act of writing and reading for me. I wrote above average and she asked, "So you must be a reader, right?" as if it were impossible for me to create what I did on my own. And I guess I kind of agree with her. It's hard to have good, original thoughts, let alone original ones, without at least some influence, right? But it made me realize something. I was jealous, attention seeking, and above all competitive. When I read something well written, I got pissed. Writing boils down to just rearranging words until they sound good. How hard could it have been to do what the author did before they actually did it? It's almost like I write to try and catch up, refine my skills, so I'll be the Next Great Thing. A New York Times Bestselling Phenomenon.
At least I know I don't write for the product. Sometimes I like to reflect on the stories and papers I wrote in middle school, but it's usually always in some sick form of self punishment. Why did you use that word? Why did you think this was good? And sometimes it's not just punishment, I just need a laugh. (Don't we all?) When I feel insecure about my current writing, I like seeing how far I've come. (Regardless of how little.) When I get writer's block or get a shitty grade on a paper, I like to look at old, unrefined stories and think, "I can't believe that I produced that," and then I'm comforted with the thought that although I didn't get a stunning grade, at least I didn't turn that in.
People always tell me the best part of my writing is that they can hear me when they read it. (I secretly love hearing that.) I feel we're in a writing pandemic. People. Don't. Use. Voice. Sentences start with a capital, have a subject and verb, and end with a period. A formula that completely dehumanizes writing. Fuck that. I like that people not only recognize my voice, but embrace it. They almost read the sentence fragments voraciously.
That scares me, though. I've just starting thinking about what my "voice" really means. I mean, I hope it sounds more intelligent, clear, and cool than my "real" voice, but that just further proves my insecurities about my "real" self. I talk too fast, my mouth speaks faster than I can think, I stumble, trip, fall over words. I use figures of speech that I kind of know so I just barely miss the mark. And so on. It scares me that people almost like my writing more than what I say in real life, because that means my true self, the self that isn't burdened by quick thoughts, fast speech, and speech impediments, is actually loved more than how I present myself in real time. Which isn't really my true self when you think about it. Does it count? When I have endless time to collect myself? Can that still be shelved under my "real" and "true" self? Maybe I write to escape that, escape the prison I find myself in when I don't speak good enough -- sorry, well enough.
I don’t know, maybe I write to be heard. Whether it’s through social justice, my own personal narratives, even essays, I just want to be heard. I want people to hear what I have to say and not only like it but like me, too. I know sound like a broken record, but, yeah, I grew up in a small, rural, conservative town. And, yeah, I’ll say it again because that shit, that shit changes you. I learned to write louder. I learned to shout. I wrote for all the things above, I wrote to escape, I wrote to press pause, I wrote to build stories, but I also wrote to take a stand. It’s not easy growing up in a place that doesn’t agree with you on nearly every political issue.
My heart drops when I think about younger me, thinking that this rural, conservative rhetoric, this concept of life, was normal. Maybe I write now to combat that. To get my revenge. I feel robbed of 18 years of my life, I grew up thinking being gay was wrong, micro-aggressions weren’t real, I was wrong. With every blog post I make, it feels like a huge “take that”. It’s not much. I know this. But it’s something. And all those little somethings build up. I’ll get that time back; I promise you this.
Regardless of how many little somethings I get back, I guess it’s clear, I don’t know why I write. In just one page alone, I’ve listed several reasons why I might write, why I might enjoy the task of sitting down at a table and putting words on paper. And maybe that’s the reason. Maybe it’s not the process, or the product, or even the reaction from people, it’s the fact I can’t place it. In biochemistry everything comes from something else. Everything in your body has a function, a clear purpose, and a name. Writing isn’t like that. It’s more free; you can do whatever the fuck you want. Maybe that’s the appeal. The ability to enter into a game where you don’t have to follow the rules. Because there aren’t any.
Imagine giving a loose cannon the ability to finally say what he wants to say, to finally write what he wants to write.
And all he has to do is press play.
And so I press it.
And I write anything, everything, all of the things, nothing.
Because I can.
And that’s what I’ll do.
I’m not ready to say why I write.
I’m not ready to give the final verdict.
But I hope someday I can.
And I hope you’ll be there, too, whoever you are.
Now, on to the next act of defiance, of writing.
I hope to see you there.