For my brand-spanking new writer’s website, I thought I’d go down to the roots of the roots so to speak.
Why the heck do I write?
I could say, it’s meaningful. Stories have shaped how I see the world. Stories teach empathy. What more natural way than a beautifully written story to help a reader put herself in someone else’s shoes? And if we can’t put on other shoes, we become cold, hard people who judge others. Reading has taught me to see from different eyes. To suspend judgment. To strive to understand. So: I write.
I could say, because it’s fun. And it is, a lot of the time. There’s nothing (nothing, I say!) like the rush of a story that feels like it’s taken you over. Those are beautiful, powerful moments–when your fingers become divine conduits and it feels like the words are writing themselves. However, there are many parts of writing that aren’t fun. Namely, writing on uninspired days. Opening up that blank document–or worse, that document that’s just a plain old mess and has gotten completely lost in the maze of itself–and realizing that you have no idea what the crap to do with it.
I could say, because one day I realized life was too hard and I needed to escape my world, so I opened up a Word document and began to write what would become my first novel.
I could say, because a stretch of time came when I was mourning the breaking up of my band (my wonderful bandmates moved away–still makes me weepy to think about) and the creative lull (read: desert) that came after, and writing was something I could do by myself, for free, and with no planning necessary.
And all of these are true–in part.
But ultimately, none of them explain it all the way. I have to say, deep down, I don’t know why I write.
Lyrics from an old song about a boy who liked to boogie-woogie come to mind:
“Let that boy boogie-woogie. Because it’s in him, and it’s got to come out.”
Writing is in me. And it’s got to come out.