Why I write
I would usually start this post by stating how unqualified I feel to write something titled, “Why I write” but I’ve decided to give the calling-myself-unqualified habit a rest for a while and accept that a writer is someone who writes compulsively (I can’t figure out how to put this in strike-through).
This morning, I read an article titled, “Why I write” and came across these essays from George Orwell and Joan Didion. They made me wonder what answer I would give to the same question and realize how personal the question is, personal because you cannot provide an answer without answering the question of who you (think you) are? Why you assume that what you have to say is worthy of being heard? Personal, because there’s no answer without talking about past experiences that made you opt for a life of solitude spent writing about things we ideally should not admit to anyone else, you might even have to explain how you became shameless and volunteered to split yourself open in the process. The other questions follow because I’m one of those people who believe that everything you write is some type of autobiography, by writing, you admit that you think about these things, even in fiction you reveal parts of yourself, your psyche, through characters and I find this as the scary part.
Writing wasn’t intentional, at first from childhood, stringing words together from daydreams, stories that were usually about a girl in boarding school, sometimes I was the girl, but she never looked anything like me, we listened to the same type of music, liked the same food, had the same taste in clothes and boys, she lived all the adventures I wanted and was limitless in a way I could never realistically attain, taller, lighter, more confident, outspoken, involved with the older boys. Now, I realize that in a way she too was limited, created on white paper within blue lines that always got misplaced.
Growing older, I found more reasons to write, I impulsively created a blog when I needed a means of getting my anonymous voice heard against some foolish rule in the university. The university I never really felt part of for years, I surprisingly made three friends before graduation, those years were spent with crippling anxiety until I found a literature section in the library where I made a home. Back then, there was no need for some deep reason to read or write, there were, however, many notes on my iPad about boys that already existed but needed to be recreated or just really bad poems, I wrote mainly because I needed an escape.
When I found another library section named African literature, it came with some increased sense of awareness, questions leading to more questions, leading to the realization of how much was unfair, then writing became more about a version of me that didn't need to be conventionally beautiful, a version of me I could imagine breaking the rules, fighting to be treated fairly, wanting sex, freedom and all the things I didn’t realize I was deprived of. Writing opened up a sort of freedom from life’s many restrictions, from the fact that I need a visa to go almost every-fucking-where, and I’m not talking about just the green one I should hide, I’m also referring to the fact that, a lot of times, I need permission to do almost anything, sometimes it’s legal tender, other times it’s a boss, teacher, or parent, but with writing comes something different. A place where I can reinvent myself as often as necessary, go into different lives and investigate, because for once I do not need permission. When I write I can be dirty Diana or the girl who found God, or the stranger I walked past on the street, it grew from some sort of awareness that we all live in moments worth retelling and because we often forget, without realizing, we let it slip away. I became obsessed with the many free women I could imagine, the ones who defied the labels through the small things, who didn’t need to serve food, God or children. Through creating her, I found ways to express myself.
With time, writing permeates everything, creates some time of consciousness that follows me, I would take long walks and really notice what is happening, walk into new towns and imagine my life there, what the people there are doing, wonder about the stories that reside in old building, in walls. Some people and places staying longer than others, haunt me and come out in fiction. I still recognize that writing is largely a self-serving act, a way of pacifying oneself, a type of validation, through loss, through heartbreak. As Megan Falley beautifully put it, “The poison leaves through the pen. I don’t walk around carrying it all day. Whenever I read my work to a room, I give it away.” This does not make writing any easier, that is why I understand when my writer friend explains that he’s putting this writing thing to a rest. I try that often, to let everything rest, I haven’t been successful yet.
The more I write, the more I realize the answer to why evades me, and perhaps this is why I write, because there are no answers and that fact doesn’t make the search any less rewarding, “The journey is the destination.” Because searching brings me closer, helps me see more, experience more, empathize more and this in a way makes all the difference.
