Why I Write

An Essay I wrote Sophomore year

Imagine you are reading about a man sitting in a green velvet chair, reading a novel in a parlor somewhere. The image is so strong in your mind it’s as if you are looking over the man’s shoulder. The deeper you move into the story the more you take notice of the mobius and realize that you in fact exist as that man in the story.

 

Allow me to explain: Have you ever begun reading something and then suddenly something, an image, a feeling, a thought, has leaped off the page at you? Where it becomes a moment where you and the writer exist in the same reality? Truthfully, you know it’s not real, simply words on a page; a whole conglomeration of symbols associated with sound and meaning but never complete accuracy.

 

I believe many writers realize how unrequited they are to truth early on in their writing career though many likely struggle for words to describe it and therein lies the problem: nearly everything we perceive is subjective to us. There has been and always will be a distance between the writer and the reader and until the human race magically develops telepathy it is likely there always will be since each of our minds’ is a universe unto itself. The reason I write is to establish some sort of intimacy with my readers.

 

In my humble opinion, carving a door for the reader and then genially beckoning them inside is the sign of a good writer… capturing them with hook-like images and then overwhelming their senses is the sign of a great writer.

 

I write to convey an experience to the reader and whether it is a memory, thought, image, sensation, or fictional piece it comes from my mind and is in essence a ‘piece’ of me. I like to think that if my pieces had minds of their own and grew legs they would be my children or perhaps like [insert your favorite kind of orchard fruit here] growing off of me if I were a [insert species of fruit-bearing tree here] after the whole budding and blooming bit; sometimes metaphors are overrated (or in this case abused).

 

As you can see, I consider writing to be a very intimate process, hence the reason why I strive to drag my reader, sometimes kicking and screaming, into the story as much as possible. I want them to leave it feeling the velvet arms of the chair and the smooth spine of the novel as well as the impending dread of the man realizing he is part of the very novel he is reading just before the murderer drifts in like a bird of prey. 

 

More than anything I want the reader to fill in the gaps left for them, so that when I describe how delicious the color of the ocean looked they can taste it for themselves rather than listen to me compare it to things they might’ve tasted before like copper pennies or chili peppers. Part of the intimacy comes from personalizing the piece in one’s mind; given the skeleton, the reader can flesh it out however they please.

 

One of my favorite authors, Robert Frost, defined poetry in such a way that has always resonated with me,

“Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words. “

 

Before moving to the east coast, I had a very strange childhood for lack of a better word. I did not do typical ‘kid’ things, nor did I spend a lot of time with others my age. In fact I was homeschooled until the sixth grade, so I spent the majority of my time learning, exploring, reading, and writing... not to mention adventuring.

 

It makes sense that in order to compensate for the isolation I had a very active imagination which was uninhibited until my school years and later suppressive influences such as living with and helping to care for my grandparents, one of which had raging dementia and the other had cancer.

 

This imagination, desire to interact with my surroundings, and taste for adventure was later revived when I stumbled onto another writer named Steve who later changed her name to Amy. All my life I had felt sort of distanced from the world around me and unable to explain or put to words my frustration of not being able to completely communicate the meaning of things to others�"no matter how hard I tried it always (still does) felt somewhat inaccurate.

 

The sheer passion for life and the philosophies she imparted onto me helped bring back my appreciation for the world and my love of psychology. Amy and I quickly became good friends and it was because of her that I really began to do some soul searching. That’s when I became interested in gender, specifically transgenderism and androgyny.

 

 This concept made a lot of sense to me and the more I explored it the more I felt akin to that world. I plan to pursue psychology and gender studies as a career in order to help others like myself and Amy feel comfortable with themselves and affirm their place in the world. In the meantime, writing is a means for me to express myself.

 

George Orwell wrote a similarly titled essay in which he also described why he believed writers write. He believed it was centered mainly around politics�"the politics of the writer. I suppose everyone is political in one way or another even if it’s in favor of one’s self because we all have beliefs and morals. It’s true, sometimes my writing reflects this.

 

Perhaps the biggest misconception about why writers write, or at least the one I’ve encountered most often, has been the desire to make ‘ear candy’. This makes no sense; writing is a delicate craft that requires skill… and it’s certainly not edible. All writing has a point. Others may say, “What about Gertrude Stein, her poems had no point.” to which I respond, “Of course they did...to her at least.”

 

Gertrude Stein was masterful in her poetry because it did make sense, if only to her. On the concept of gaps, an entire poem of hers was a gap with only thread-like connections. Each poem had its own story which put reason to the rhyme and wild cacophony of imagery and sounds. The reader is meant to pick it out for themselves, adding their own thoughts, feelings.

 

With this in mind, her nonsensical and somewhat egotistical way of writing becomes very intimate for two reasons. One, she is writing for herself and only herself; she does not cater to the reader, nor does she fit into a specific form. And two, even though she distances herself this way she is also drawing the reader into the poem by letting them make it their own. For this I respect her greatly and try to incorporate this same idea though perhaps with a bit more structure.

 

Poetry is meant to be ear candy but not solely ‘pretty meaningless words on a page’. Language is a very beautiful thing and can be very influential seeing as we are a media-based society. Another quote from a famous writer, Edgar Allen Poe, puts eloquently, “Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words.”

 

I write to educate as anyone who puts thoughts down on paper with the intention of having others read them. Just about everything I’ve written was meant to teach the reader something and everything I’ve read has taught me something. In pursuing a career in psychology, I’d like to teach psychology possibly in a high school setting since teenagers seem like a demographic that could really benefit from it.

 

I also love surrealism; the art of taking the normal and making it different, complex, and strange. Not everything in our world can be defined by the cardboard box dimensions of logic or two-value orientation of “right or wrong”, “black or white”, not everything has an explanation or reason, and no one perceives things in the exact same way because we live in a grayscale world. For example, picture yourself sitting in a room.

 

What room? What does it look like? Is there furniture? Where is the door? What are you sitting on? etc. That simple phrase would be different for everyone since our personal experiences color our perception of things and everything we can name is a process, everything is changing, therefore the chair you were sitting on last week is not the same chair you may be sitting on now (even if that’s what you’ve been lead to believe) because it carries with it the effects of time, experiences, and changes in meaning.

 Trying to explain your experience to someone else so that they would have the exact same picture in their head would be as easy as nailing Jello to a tree (I’ve attempted this and found the saying to be true). As you can see, writing and psychology go hand in hand. The best way to describe the indescribable is through metaphor, really it’s as close as one will ever get to accuracy. Ironic that saying, “Her heart fell like a piano from a ten story building.” is more accurate than saying, “She was heartbroken.” (also a metaphor) but the reader would never know just how heartbroken she was with the second description.

 

So perhaps I do have an overarching purpose for why I write because I value accuracy and information, or conveying an emotion directly rather than describing it from afar, above all else. More than anything, I want this accuracy to last. Years from now I may not remember how loud and crunchy the fall leaves were or how someone’s eyes looked but I can always go back and hear the firework leaves and see the melting chocolate eyes.

 

The human brain is incapable of remembering every little detail from our lives but words are immortal. Even when I’m dead and my ashes are scattered at the roots of a rose bush my written words will still be in my journals, on the walls of my room, or floating around on the internet and others who have never met me can read them and know exactly how sunlight felt on someone’s hair when I combed my fingers through it like I was stringing a harp.

Author's Note

I wrote this several years ago, thought it was nifty.