this is my day-1 response to the question “why do I write?”
There is a way to invent yourself without starting over. There is a need to recapture what is already seen with the human eyes, without a camera. And sometimes, there is a desire to create from nothing a new piece of fantasy in a world that’s real. Be they books to the masses, blogs to the friends and critics, journals to oneself, or sticky-notes that get lost in tin trash cans, pieces of writing are a means to some significance. Writing isn’t just a new way to describe something, it is, in fact, the completion of an image. Much like the act of praise is not finished until the arms raise and the voice shouts, a picture in the mind is consummated by the connection of words from the native tongue.And so I speak. I write what my mouth cannot say and paint what my hand cannot render. I use words to emphasize, rearrange, ignore, fabricate, and share. Maybe it is to teach someone something, somewhere out there whose mind becomes engaged. But I can’t possibly only be tied to public response, for surely I have not much to offer. Perhaps it is a therapy that frees my mind from the already busy life I think I have. But it doesn’t always make me feel better. No, I write not for these reasons. Writing is a message, an answer, a description, an insight, a story, a feeling, and a telescope. Would not all these words otherwise stay only within our own heads, chained to the walls of an inquisitive soul?Quite simply, I write because we would be lame without books.
