Hurrah, right?
I’m a writer. And if you’re reading this, you’re probably a
writer, too. It’s one of those things where it’s slightly obvious to the two of
us (yes, more than one person will
look at this post, but it’s a personal post so let’s pretend it’s only you and
me, hm?). I write about writing, you read my stuff about writing.
Thus, my dear Watson, it is elementary to conclude that we
are both writers, or at the very least you are a stalker of writers. Either
way.
I do a lot of writing, even when I’m much too busy for my
own good. The last two months, for instance, have been the busiest of my life.
What with my senior year starting, college classes (for FREEEE),
extracurricular activities (theatre will be theatre), driving younger siblings
places, and just being generally busy, it’s hard to find time to write.
However, I’ve managed to squeeze in more than 90,000 words (that is an approximate
number, and not including those days were I outlined or scribbled in a notebook
instead of working on a blog post or on a document I could actually keep track
of words in).
If you think about it, that’s a lot of words. That’s the
average length of novel publishers like to see (I’ve found that most like
novels 50,000-120,000). It’s spread across blog posts for these past two months
and my current novel.
It’s quite a few words, a number I’m very pleased with, all
things considered. Lots of time spent in the library clacking away at keys or
burrowed in my room where none will ever find me.
But… why?
Why did I write those
words?
I could answer
that I wrote those words because I’m a writer. That, however, is the obvious
answer. The excuse for writing those words. To rephrase the question: why am I a writer?
And now to direct it to you:
Why are YOU a
writer?
It’s an interesting question, a complex one. In a way it’s a
loaded question, because I’m assuming you are a writer. Let us, however, reference
my brilliant deduction at the beginning and remember that we both, in fact, are
writers.
So.
Why do you write? Why are you a writer?
As for me, it’s what I like to call my “artistic pursuit”. Just like planning to go to college and major in
chemical engineering is my “intellectual fulfillment”, writing completes part of me. I can’t create art in the way most
other people can create art. Unlike my siblings, I can’t play any instrument whatsoever. Contrary to the talents of
many of my friends, I cannot sing,
dance, or draw (unless you count stick figures… I draw a pretty mean stick
figure).
I don’t sculpt, make
pots, or throw a bucket of paint into a jet engine and see what comes out.
None of these things turn out for me.
But that doesn’t make
me unartistic.
I can create art.
My art is simply the art of a story. I tell stories through
writing. It is the way I pursue art.
Now, that’s not the only reason I write.
I write because, despite the difficulty of writing, it’s fun. It creates this sense of joy for
me when I put words on a paper/computer screen. Even now, I’m getting a thrill
typing out the rough draft of this post and refining it.
That, I think, is called passion. Doing something you love simply because you love it.
A shiver down your spine, a smile plastered on your face.
Even a furrowed brow at your own mistakes (or at Word when it underlines
fragments in green squiggly lines and you don’t care that they’re fragments,
they’re part of your artistic vision).
Then, I write to make
a difference. Someday, I hope to be published. You know, traditionally published. And
I hope people will read whatever it is I publish.
But the thing about people reading what I write, I don’t
want that writing to be useless. If all I present to readers is meaningless in
the end, what good is it?
That’s not story. That’s not art.
Giving them stories
that mean something, stories that will make them think and wonder.
That.
That is why I write.
What about you? Why do
you write? Leave a comment and share!
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