Why do you write? This question has bounced around my mind for hours now. Firstly, let me explain this title. I feel highly emotional about the topic of writing. I believe you must possess a certain level of pure intelligence—an unhindered creativity that spawns from the unburdened human mind—in order to become a successful writer. Creativity spawns from affection; the infectious words on this paperwork to prove my intelligent affection for writing.
In order to understand why I write, you must first understand how I write. My preferred poison is a blue ballpoint pen and notebook paper clasped together with a black cardboard cover. The blue ink is intentional- red is too intense; black is too permanent. The music is important, of course. My music of choice is either classic rock or rap. It must have a living beat, a sound you can feel without really listening to it. If I do not have a sharp distraction, I will think too much. If I think too much, I will explain too much. I have an issue of explaining things too much. I will repeat the same sentence several times in order to force the reader to understand exactly what I am trying to convey. I do not like typing, not until the piece is perfect. Typing is permanent. Once the music and blue ink makes me feel alive, I can spare some of my life force and gift it to the character.
The characters. These are the true reason why I write. I, in myself, can only live one life. It is impossible to do anything else. In this set time span that I am given, I would like to squeeze as many lives in as possible. I’ve found that the best way to do this is by writing or creating. I feel as though my process is similar to that of Michelangelo’s process of carving out marble. He once said that there were statues already trapped inside the marble; he just worked to free them. I feel the same way about my characters. They live inside of my mind, slowly fleshing out their own stories. I must write their stories once they’ve reached a maturity to venture out into the world. Thus, I work to offer a slice of each character’s life in order to add meaning to my own.
I write because I must. My mind buzzes, constantly and consistently. If I do not write, my mind begins buzzing with words instead of just sounds. The echoes and screams of each character are tormenting. Is this a good time to mention that I am completely sane? Each time I choose not to write a character’s tale, it’s like taking a rough plastic knife and carving the skin of my character until they bleed out. I am robbing them of their lives—lives that they have worked so hard to bring to the forefront of my mind to simply have the opportunity to be thought of. My writing is their only chance to know, even for a short moment, what it means to truly live. The abstract ideas of each character must force themselves into each piece, so they do not intertwine with my own personal ideas and affections. Or, shall I say, my own personal intelligent affection.
Writing is an instinctual affection that spawns my own personal purpose in life. I write for clarity. I write to validate my own life by creating torture in my characters’. I write for sanity and the way my mind buzzes against my skull. I write, not out of a want, but out of a necessity to create something useful out of my small, meaningless life. I write because I must.
