On writing

I write stories, first of all, because it makes me lighter. The act of writing is like hunting for a tumour with an MRI machine and slicing it out with a steak knife; publishing is putting it in a glass case and showing it off at the Louvre. You feel physically lighter, yes, but also socially — there’s nothing else left to hide now, surely! That is, until you find the next tumor. Then the cathartic cycle repeats.

There is, of course, more to writing than extracting tumours even if extracting tumours is writing’s most urgent function. Writing is the unscientific science of finding out more about yourself. Certainly, I think the process of writing about yourself — when done correctly — somewhat mimics the scientific method of inquiry. Observe. Recollect. Bring yourself back to a slice of space and time. Build a model — this is your story. Reach deep and reconstruct a world gone by. Test the model against your memory and your friends’ memories. Then make hypothesis and test them against your model. Derive new, useful knowledge about yourself from your model. Of course, there is one thing that makes writing about yourself very unscientific — it’s very difficult to compare your model to reality because your model is a product of your mind and your mind is your personal reality. Perhaps the best I can do is to compare my model of myself conjured by my writing to the models of general humans thought up by science.

So that’s why I write. Now why I don’t write. Writing nauseates me. Oh, it makes me want to throw up. It tickles the base of my tongue and I throw up. Then, when I think about his grimy fingers down my throat I throw up again. Cutting out tumours is painful and unadvisable unless absolutely necessary. Out of sight, out of mind. Have painkillers ready, if possible. But the surgery is not the worst part — that comes after. It comes when, proudly admiring a piece of you on display, doubt starts to creep in. Something in your stomach rises. Is that really a tumour? It all feels wrong. How can I know? You try to hold it in. Have I cut out a perfectly good part of my brain?

Indeed, there is something awesomely arrogant about writing and especially about writing for others. It implies that you know what’s wrong with yourself. Maybe you do. Maybe you don’t. Who knows? Don’t become a writer if you’re interested in the truth. No, you’ll be much better off being a scientist. Write sci-fi if you must. But writing stories like Murakami or Salinger or Kerouac? Don’t bother. Knowing what’s wrong with yourself is man’s eternal quest. It can’t be taken lightly.

Don’t write if you want to please people. I don’t mean stories like Hunger Games — you can write those. But write stories like Murakami’s or Salinger’s or Kerouac’s? Don’t bother. You’ll piss off your friends and family. They don’t want to see your tumour. They know they helped make it. God forbid they start looking for their own. Of course, other readers might be more grateful. For them, your tumour is a work of art. It’s not so scary when you tie it to a pole and tear it apart.

Truthfully, I don’t know why I write or why anyone writes. If you’ve read this far — I’m sorry because we haven’t learnt anything new. All I have to say is here’s another tumour, I hope you like it.