Why I write

I started writing stories in middle school. At the time I was primarily focused on writing poetry. Why? Because I was going to be a poet, of course! I was not inspired by Shakespeare either. I much preferred William Blake. At the time, i was more inspired by the construction of rhymes and rhythms through poetry than I was of short stories or essays. I wrote poetry most of middle school, and even submitted my poems to online publications. There was a poetry site that promised to publish my poem in a book. I even entered a competition!

Fast forward to high school, a period in one’s life where things are going really well for you, or they are going horribly wrong. While mine weren’t going horribly wrong—I didn’t have any drug or drinking problems for example—they weren’t going well either. Writing continued to be an escape for me—especially in my journal—but the aspirations of becoming a writer were mired by the “you need to grow up and find a ‘real’ job” commentaries of adults. Apparently, writing wasn’t a real job. Nor was it considered a profession that I could actually make a living in. Seems no one told those people about J.K. Rowling or Ernest Hemingway. But perhaps they considered them an exception. And to quote a middle school teacher of mine: “you won’t all get to become famous sport stars”. What she meant to say was that we were the rule, and those other people? They were the exception.

I digress.

I stopped writing for my own pleasure when I entered college. All the writing I did—though I greatly enjoyed most of it—was academic and full of essays and analyses on someone else’s literary work. I could spend an entire day analyzing Sartre or Hemingway. However, every sentence I wrote was dedicated entirely to what I would consider an ode to another writer. I wasn’t allowed to be creative. I wasn’t allowed to go beyond the pages of another book. I have discovered that the older we get, the more excuses we create to not do the things we want to do. Example? I always told myself I couldn’t really write because I didn’t have enough time. Until just a few months ago, I continued to start a book, story, or whatever, and would presume to drop it at the earliest convenience. I was tired. I was uninspired. I was everything except writing. The same could be said just about everything else in my life. I’d abandoned everything that I wanted to be and accomplished. For what? For a couch and a few hours on the internet.

This is why I am writing. This isn’t a coherent tale about explorers. It’s not an epic romance. But that’s fine. Because I want to write about what I want to write about. There are so many stories and ideas floating around in my head. If I fail to transfer them to written word, they will be lost forever. They will be swallowed by the blackhole of my consciousness, never to surface again.

Maybe that is a bit dramatic. But I am convinced now, more than ever, that all of the comments about getting “a real job” or figuring out what I “wanted to do with my life” were simply another person’s attempts at keeping me grounded. I don’t want to be grounded. I do not wish to spend the remaining years of my life waiting for events to occur to me.

Therefore, please join me on this comical journey that is life and being human. And I hope you look forward to more works from me in the (very) near future!