Why do I Write?
I write to be happy
I’ve read several texts about what makes a person to write. Well, I mean, the reasons and arguments of the writers themselves. Just yesterday I read an article about this matter in which some writers approach this issue of writing, something like: what defines a writer? The number or works published, the content, the size of the audience, the criticisms?
Clarice Lispector, a great brazilian writer used to say that she wrote for pure pleasure. She said: “I write to myself, so that I can feel my soul speaking and singing, sometimes crying.” Another writer, Frei Beto, said he writes to build his own identity and even more beautiful in his own words: “to aesthetically polish the strange forces that emanate from my unconscious.” However, he himself wonders if he would have been a writer without the encouragement of some teachers and the very example of his father and mother who also wrote.
Anyway, whoever writes should always asks this question: why do I write? I ask myself and I don’t know. Perhaps because my father wrote a book of memories, my uncle and cousin wrote books of poems. We end up finding more than one reason. For me writing is difficult, or rather, it is not easy, but, no doubt, it is a great pleasure!
Writing is a puzzle that I can fit until the end, always fitting one piece into another. It is the delicate embroidery with letters and words that I never learned with threads and laces. Sometimes writing is easier when, for example,I receive an unexpected visit from the blessed inspiration that generously arrives loaded with suitcases crammed with brilliant ideas. But most of the time I really have to wake up the lazy words that insist on sleeping leaving me alone in the middle of empty spaces and question marks. Then I read, I go the sources, but the text is only born after I type the first word. Soon comes another envious word, another one, until many words beg me on my knees to participate in the text. It is a word that draws another, an idea that brings two more and the article comes out. It is work, but when I’m done, oh it’s nice, I’m just tidying up here and there, looking for the most appropriate or most resonant word, in short, the one that fits more with this or that subject.
It is said we are not writers, but we become writers when our writing takes wings and already lives on its own, something like the son who grows up and becomes independent. A ready-made book is even compared to childbirth, but the child very soon is no longer ours. For the writer the time of care is when he begins to harbor an idea, it is the time of imagination, then comes the time of composition, until finally the book or the article is released. From then on, the reader will be in charge of enjoying the message that will be important or inspiring to him at that moment of reading.
Well, I write to tell stories, I write because I have an imperative need to register facts and events that I feel they cannot be lost over time. I write to share with others my own story that is revealed directly or indirectly through my real and fictional writings. Parodying Frei Betto, I write to be happy, to have pleasure. I write because I am vain and narcissistic, but I forgive myself with the pretensious and illusory consolation that almost every author is too.
What else? I write because the world enchants me, death scares me and the life amazes me.