Once, for a Creative Writing class, I was given the assignment, “Why Do I Write?” In it I explained all the reasons I like to write. As I sit here now, I think, did I really mean all those words? Or, did I write it because it sounded cool and artsy? Did I write it because I thought I would have to read it to the class? What if someone important (a well-written and popular author or editor) read that piece one day? Would they think it was fascinating? Do I write for them? Do I write for myself? If I had to be brutally honest with myself and my writing, “Why Do I Write?”
I write because I have been writing for as long as I can remember.
A neighbor from my childhood sent me “The Pumpkin Story,” the first story I had ever written. It barely made sense and I could barely spell, but I wrote it. I must have been six years old.
I used to wake up in the morning and quickly jot down my dreams. They didn’t matter to anyone else, but they mattered enough to me to get them down on paper.
In the third grade, when I was eight or nine years old, we were given the assignment to write a story on anything we wanted. The criterion was 3-5 pages (little kid sized lines on the paper). I chose to write about my life up until then. I filled up 10 pages. When we were done we given 30 minutes to walk around to the other desks and read each other’s stories. We were supposed to leave comments on the post-it we had all placed on our desk next to our written work. Every comment I received was, “It’s so long.” I had so much more I wanted to say. I could have written forever.
I loved writing and reading, so I enjoyed spelling, silent reading time and of course journal writing time. I loved to see me sloppy handwriting on paper.
When I got into the 8th grade I had my first research paper due. I wrote way more than was needed. I was proud. When we got our papers back I received a bad grade. I was dumbfounded, especially when my friends, who complained and had a hard time writing the damn thing, got a good grade.
This continued on into high school and through college. I never got good grades on any of my papers. The funny thing was they were so easy to write. I couldn’t stop writing sometimes, I always wrote more than was required. But, they were never what the teacher wanted.
Whenever I had to outline a chapter for a history class I had it done before anyone. My friends would copy my work because to them reading and outlining the chapter was boring and something they didn’t want to do. Even when we didn’t need to outline a chapter I did it anyway. I did this for as long as I had chapters to study. Again, I never got good grades on the tests. I could hardly remember what I was writing down, I just wanted an excuse to write.
I love making lists. Lists about anything: things I need to do that day, groceries, things I eventually want to own, things I want to change, my goals. I’ve kept journals upon journals about the dumb things and the brilliant. Whatever it is, I like to write on paper. And, read any book that comes my way.
When I finally (after four other attempts) picked Creative Writing as my major, I realized I had found my calling. It was so easy! The assignments were right up my alley and it came natural. I had nearly perfect grades. You can’t deduct points on creativity! The downfall seemed to be my intimidation with the other pretentious students in my classes. I never participated in class because I felt stupid and less qualified to give my opinion. Who was I? Just a girl who kept journals? I kept to myself and did my work.
I don’t always have good ideas and I lack the patience and determination to finish a long piece. I want to be a novelist someday. This is how I want to live my life. To me a novelist equals freedom. And, I would be doing what I love. How perfect!
All I want to do is write. Write on paper. Not typing on a keyboard, longhand. I would do it everyday it I didn’t feel like I had to write something significant every time.
I don’t have talent, that’s a fact. Sometimes I surprise myself, but most of the time my writing is immature and boring. I chose Creative Writing to study because I could actually see myself finishing and getting a degree; And, because I just want to write.
I read out loud. I don’t always remember what I’ve read, but I like to hear the words. Sometimes that means reading the back of a bottle of lotion when I’m in the bathroom.
I love to read words on a page and I love to write my own words on a page. Does this make me strange? Or, does it mean I like to see my handwriting and hear my voice?
Sometimes I’ll interview my husband just to have something to write about. I’ll pick up a book of writing exercises just to write something down.
Am I barking up the wrong tree? Am I forever running up a steep hill with no destination? Will I ever see the top of Everest?!
The best presents I’ve ever received are journals, notebooks, books and gift certificates to book stores. I honestly feel there’s nothing better than reading, especially when it is a good book, one that can make you cry.
One day my sister steps into my work and drops off a book. She tells me, “I have no idea what it’s about, but you’ll read anything.”
This is why I write.
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