Why do you write?
Purpose.
Yup, that’s the word.
Everything, almost everything, we do, or at least try to do, emerges from our propensity to add meaning to our existence. Without a purpose, we’d be blankly whiling our time away. That said, even those with purpose tend to squander their breaths on things they don’t want to be a part of but are compelled by their circumstances. The ultimate difference is hidden in finding one’s own purpose of life instead of waiting for somebody else — parents, siblings, relatives, friends or the so-called well-wishers — to formulate it for you.
As far as writing is concerned, people like me write—can’t really speak for others hence creating a conventional subgroup of a subgroup of a subgroup—because we aren’t sure what else to do with ourselves. We can’t strike conversations. We talk about stuff others aren’t willing to. We are clumsy in our manners. We don’t have appreciable talents. We are hardly remarkable. So, we read a lot and we strive to write a bit. We come up with ideas that make sense to us but don’t always strike a chord with others. We don’t care and yet we do. Secretly. Somewhere inside our skull, there’s a delusion of a future which might be interested in knowing, if not fully understanding, what we thought of. Or how we thought, not so long ago. Because writing is a process conducted in the present but can only be assuaged in the future, thus making the past a crucial meeting point. Whether you write about the present in the present or the past in the present or the future in the present, the same principle applies. There’s no escape from this conclusive labyrinth of space and time.
Although writing is a lonely vocation/hobby, many great writers have proved effective in connecting lonelier souls. There’s no bigger joy than finding a person who likes a book or a writer or a thought process as much as you do. Isn’t everything about finding a common ground? Don’t our common interests influence us more than anything else? These two said individuals might enjoy solitude — a terms that sells loneliness in an exotic fashion nowanights—but literature connects them in an admirable way. How this magic happens is best left to the experts who study human behaviour and psychiatry.
Thus, wannabe writers such as me endeavour to piece together broken streams of thoughts while hoping to leave behind paragraphs that may or may not help people bond. What’s more significant is the pursuit of purpose here. It’s the literary equivalent of leaving a bread trail in the woods so that you can always go back to a point in history to check how your mind conspired back then or how much has your perspective changed since. A not-so-laborious method of keeping up with yourself, isn’t it?
Like breathing, it’s a selfish thing, this writing business. You do it for yourself and nobody else in particular. If you manage to write a book, you may dedicate it to a loved one but you wrote it for yourself. That’s the truth and you’d know it. There was a story in you and you pulled it out to share it with others. You may acquire fame, money, etc. if you are truly gifted and exceptionally fortunate. However, going back to the basic, writing nurtures you and no amount of external validation can match the personal satisfaction of expressing oneself freely.
Rest assured, your words will help you find your purpose. And if worse comes to worst, you would be left with yourself. Not exactly a bad deal, if you ask me.
