Why I Write

Often, I find myself looking for memories that are drifting away that once seemed like the funniest, most memorable occasions but are no longer present in adequate detail. One of the reasons I write is to preserve these ephemeral experiences. In the future, I hope to recount these stories, primarily to myself when I feel lost, so as to remember these unique experiences that have defined my life. As the details slowly recede into the past, I want to be able to have them in front of me, to be able to evoke the same emotions.

Sometimes, I add details that I think were part of the experience, but I can never know if they really were true. For example, on March 2, I was in a car accident in which I suffered a concussion. I know that my carpool’s gray Accord was crushed, or more nicely put, welcomed into nonexistence. Looking back on it, I have no idea of whether it was gray or gold, or any other color. Yet I always think of the car as gray. Perhaps, I think of the car as gray because that best evokes the emotions of anger, hurt, and fear that encompassed me in that experience. The true color fails to matter to me, however, because feelings are all I want from my writing. I want to be able to see myself in that situation again, to gain even a semblance of the emotions that had at the time, overcome me. Writing gives me an avenue into my past, one thing that I refuse to accept is lost forever.

But I also write to awaken the more creative, more vibrant side of me that I often keep from shining. Writing allows me to discover how much that vibrancy means to my identity and gives me hope that one day it will shine, that it will fearlessly establish control over my identity, as it should. As a process of discovery, writing allows me to uncover the intricacies of my mind, where I’ve been, where I’m going, where I hope to go. I used to believe that writing was only for those who had a solid understanding of their subject. But, writing is about moving forward in understanding; it is about getting to know oneself better. And incidentally, I discovered this through writing. Writing constantly. One day, I want to be able to introduce Victor and discover his essence later like Joan Didion. I guess writing is an extension of what we hope to have in the future. Eventually, we may all reach that point of discovery, but the process of acceptance of that discovery, of oneself, is a substantial part of writing. I never knew that I thought about certain things the way I did until I wrote about them. And when I wrote about them, it took quite a while for me to accept the way I saw them. Writing allowed me to witness my perception from a place that was not my own mind, a subjective assessment of the subjective.

When I started the previous paragraph, I had my heart set on exploring how a desire for creativity is intrinsic to the art of writing. Yet, I ended on an examination of perception. That’s writing for you.

It may seem as if I write for myself and that may be true to some extent. Yet I also write for others. I recently posted a story documenting the hilarity of my first and only nosebleed on my blog. For a quick recap, nearly eight years ago, I had been teasing my sister much to her consternation; after reaching her limit, she shoved her finger up my nostril, thus leading to a torrent of blood originating from my nose. I loved watching my parents read it and recall the memory, an experience that they had probably not thought about for quite a while. I loved that the story allowed them to laugh with each other, for once in their busy lives. Perhaps, if they fail to remember the experiences I have written about, it is definitely enjoyable to watch them look at me in incredulity and say, “Really? That happened to you?” Such experiences have all touched my life in some way and watching it touch another’s life, if for a brief moment, is something that I highly value.