Why I Write

There is a moment when you’re writing, when there’s this shift, as though the words have been traveling to this particular point all along and have known it, only you, the writer - who is supposed to be the Creator of their universe, their unrivalled God, you, the omnipotent - didn’t see this shift coming; and the surprise of many, most or all of those pieces that have been spread out on the pages suddenly clicking themselves into place without it seemingly having anything to do with you, sends a rush of triumph through you that is incompatible with anything else. You know what I’m talking about.

The truth is, the writer and the language he or she possesses have a BDSM relationship, where the writer would like to think him or herself as the dominant partner (a God in control of the world), but must admit to being a willing slave to their craft, which governs them with an iron grip and is at times irrational, unpredictable and haughty in its demands and expectations. It will allow for inspiration to enter at times that are more than inconvenient, and sometimes keep it at bay when it’s needed the most. It will twist and turn the writer’s mind until their head is spinning and it feels as though nothing good will come of it. It will be a compulsion and it will not let up, but this is how a writer earns his or her right to call themselves a writer: all the slaving under the whip of a master will have its rewards.

The language spilled onto a page that is printed black on white for all to see, that heavy scent of fresh ink that seems to paste itself inside your nostrils and along the inside of your throat, that is something of beauty. So what if you struggled with every other paragraph and thought you would never finish, so what if that one plot hole proved nearly impossible to fill without causing at least a speed bump, so what if you felt you spent most of your time staring at your computer, praying for it to burn a fuse and go black before your very eyes - frustration is part of the process, indecisiveness and doubt and anger are as well, but the process wouldn’t be the process without that emotional rollercoaster. What can I say, I love it.

Creativity is like a force that wants to break through your skin, urging you to do something about it or it will have to damage you in order to tear free. Splash it on a canvas; paint it on a wall; ink it onto skin; put it on a page or catch it in a photograph - there are a million ways for it to express itself, and with me it seems to have chosen language.

What fascinates me is its thirst for evolution. There is a need to learn and grow that drives me to find new ways to express myself, new ways for inspiration to approach me, having me read articles, blogs and books about topics that catch my eye, and that usually leaves me with a certain something that is bound to be useful at some point, even though I don’t know when it will be pulled out and brought onto the page.

But this ties back with why I am the willing slave: the unpredictability keeps it interesting, keeps me curious what is coming next, who will I meet, where will it take me, what is my next adventure? It’s that absolute high of feeling contented with a sentence, a paragraph, a chapter, a novel, a scene, a screenplay, a poem, a character, a villain, the love, the hate, the struggle, the resolution.

There is no simple or concise answer to the question, but I would sum it up as this:

I write because if I didn’t, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself. Writing is such a huge part of me that if I lost it, I would literally loose myself. Writing is what I want to be doing for the rest of my life, so if this incredible gift was somehow taken away, I would be such a miserable creature that I would repel everyone and only attract misery and finally I would shrivel and wither away with wont of anything productive to do. Oh, yes - wither.

Writing is what makes everything else worth it.

And that moment of pure, undiluted magic, when everything suddenly shifts and by some grace clicks itself into place; when those threads that have been dangling throughout a work-in-progress simply tie themselves together in a flawless knot; that rush of triumph when I feel I am part of something that is me, and yet removed from my person, is like a little everyday miracle. It surprises me every time. And I can’t imagine myself without it. I wouldn’t ever want to.