Journal/Blog

11-13-22 - What is writing for me?

Why do I write? Why do I want to write?
I've thought of these questions off and on throughout my life.

As a student, I wrote for academic reasons: book reports, essays, term papers, creative writing assignments, articles for the school newsletter, etc. These were all reasonably public regardless of whether I wanted them to be. At the least, they were shared with the teacher, sometimes shared with a group of students or the entire class or in the case of the newsletter (a part of a class I took) the entire school.

Some of those assignments I enjoyed. Some of them I despised. All of them were growing experiences for me, even if I didn't realize or appreciate it at the time. None of them contained my full potential. Why? I was too shy to put myself out there and take a chance at shining brighter, or perhaps brightest. There was always a little, most times a lot, that I held back. Always choosing the more mundane topics or themes, the ones that guaranteed I would get a good grade... and also remain just another kid in the crowd.

I had stories that I wrote on my own and they were for no one but me. Until one day, a friend accidentally got ahold of one. I can still recall the sinking feeling of dread as they asked, "What's this?" I couldn't even say it was someone else's. It was in my handwriting.

After preparing for the worst, I fessed up to it being mine, tried to dismiss it as something ridiculous I had just doodled out and should probably be in the trash. To my utter surprise, they had said, "It's really good, like 'in a book' good. You should keep going and finish it." Those words are held near and dear in my heart like they were emblazoned in gold on a plaque and put on a wall with a light shining down upon them.

I never did finish that story. Life happened, as it usually does, and by the time I even contemplated finishing it, I realized I had outgrown the storyline. But... I still remember it. I hold it close, like the words on the plaque.

Why do I write? Why do I want to write?
Because I need to, want to, in some cases... almost have to.

Writing can be confounding and frustrating. It can make me want to bang my head against a wall, or pull my hair out, or find an open field to scream my lungs out. It can take every bit of energy and bleed me dry for more until I need to step away and let myself rejuvenate only to go back and give even more. There are days I stare at a screen and curse the fact that I can't find a few words, let alone tens of thousands.

And yet...

Writing can be cathartic and healing. The act of doing it challenges me like nothing else in this world. I have characters that are not like old friends, they are old friends. They travel along with me, sometimes growing and changing, sometimes staying the same, but always there. Putting words to paper (figuratively speaking these days) can let them get out of my head or heart. It can be affirming or revealing; at times it is the only method I have to purge the darkness that dwells within and bring it to bear the light of day.

So, though writing may be a constant struggle between flowing rivers of words and stagnant swamps of doubt and uncertainty... it always has been and always will be a vital part of my happiness and an essential part of my life.