Why Write?

I'm gonna be upfront with you:

I'm a twenty-one year old white boy from the suburbs. If you're not interested in what I have to say I can't blame you. For the rest of you who are bored enough to read my words, I thank you for taking the time and I hope you find something meaningful in my ramblings. Maybe (wishful thinking) you will even be a little enlightened. But, of course, I'm making promises I probably won't keep. Most likely this blog will be dedicated to my favorite bands (The Decemberists, Rogue Wave, Wilco, etc.), TV shows (The Office, No Reservations, Dexter, etc.), authors (J.K. Rowling, Kurt Vonnegut, Jasper Fforde, etc.), and whatever else pops up in my skull. 

Now, I guess I should sputter out the usual details. Where I'm from (Coon Rapids, MN), what I do for school (English major/film minor at Minnesota State University, Mankato), what I do for money (Costco's bitch), and where I'm going in life (hopefully somewhere between an aquatic documentarian and a globe-trotting Anthony Bourdain wannabe). But I'm guessing if you're reading this you already know all these facts. You're probably a friend, facebook or otherwise. Which brings me to the first topic I'd like to blog about.

Lets start with a question: Why write?

Many of you, my friends, are writers. Whether you aspire to do it professionally or otherwise. We probably started out together in middle school with Ms. Zimba at Writer's Breakfast. Coming in early (as only nerds do) and sharing our stories with each other. We'd listen, stuffing our faces with chocolate chip muffins and slurping down tiny cartons of milk, and dream. Letting each other's words lap over us, it didn't matter whether the stories were terrible adolescent hormonal slop or if they were the beginnings of the next War and Peace, they were OUR stories. And I don't think we fully appreciated this until it was pulled out from under us.

 

In high school there was no Ms. Zimba, no Writer's Breakfast. We were on our own, back in the wilderness. You'd think we'd give up. You'd think we'd just say, "Oh well, it was fun while it lasted." But no, we did something brave. We created our own writer's group and kept scribbling out new things to laugh over or talk deeply about. This wasn't for extra credit or something to look good on the college application, it was something independent, something rebellious. 

So, this brings me back to my main question: Why write? Why do it?

You could say it's fun, but not always. A lot of work has to be put into the words. I still spend late nights toiling over sentences. "Isn't there a better way to describe that?" I'm always second guessing myself. Even as I blog this I have misgivings over whether my grammar is correct (because I know Pedro will be on to me if it's not!). I also have terrible spelling, a horrible quality for an English major. There are times when I can't remember how restaurant or anchor are spelled (yeah, it's that bad). So, no, writing isn't always fun. The fun parts only come when you create something that makes people laugh, cry, or, both. That's where the fun comes, but it takes a hell of a lot of work to get there. 

You probably think I'm a pretentious bastard for writing this. "Who does he think he is? What does he really know about writing?" I'll be the first to admit I rarely finish anything I start. I have tons of files in my computer containing outlines and starting paragraphs for stories I'll never complete. But it's the effort that counts, at least that's what I tell myself to stave off the urge to douse my MacBook in lighter fluid and strike a match. 

Alright, so I think we've established we don't write just for the fun of it. I know I don't. We all have our own reasons. I could try listing all of them for you, but that would take far too much time and this blog has gone on far enough. 

Let me just say this, we write because we WANT to. There's something inside us, an urge or addiction that can't be stopped. The other day, I was with my girlfriend and, without thinking, I said, "I have to go to Dunn Bros. and write." She asked what I had to write about, and I said, "Whatever I want." This made her laugh, and rightly so. What we do is absurd to those who don't understand the joys of articulating thoughts into words. We are a strange bunch, us writers. But we can't be stopped, because we want it too much. When I've gone too long without writing, I become depressed and rather bad-tempered. I have an itch, like a heroine addict looking for his next score. And then there's the cathartic sigh that comes with the start of a new project. Maybe it's unhealthy, but I don't care. This is what we do.