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2002-06-07 - 4:04 p.m.

Why I Write

Of course I stole this title from Joan Didion, who stole it from George Orwell. And I’m not stopping there, I’m also borrowing Didion’s reason for stealing the title. Three short words sharing a sound: I, I, I.

My earliest career memory-which now seems to be age 10--is one of myself as writer. I could see The Great American Novel, or Pulitzer Prize winning journalist etched in my future. I scribbled characters and stories in Big Chief tablets and daydreamed about my first sale. Although I’m not a writer who does a lot of introspection or self-analysis, I’ve spent much time over the past forty-odd-years trying to understand why defining myself as a writer was so important.

I’ve worked at various occupations, but none cling to my skin like writing. I’ve dabbled in education and psychology, but feel no sense of tenure or belonging. Eventually I get the itch to return to the written word. I allowed my original career path to veer from writing into an undergraduate degree in psychology, returning to college again for graduate study in counseling psychology before finally--at age 30--going back again for a graduate degree in journalism. Twenty years after my initial pledge, but I was still being tugged by the desire to put words on paper.

I like to write; I’ve toyed and worked at writing for many years. I’ve spent a certain period of my life paying my bills as a writer, and I still haven’t the vaguest notion as to why I do it or why I enjoy writing.

I can’t think of an activity as self-centered as writing. Secreting myself in the quiet of my study, bringing characters to life, painting a personal picture of the physical world, getting lost in the plot and struggle, losing myself in the piece I’ve created--a world I own and control. Feeling an internal surge of pleasure when the words fit and a maternal sense of protection when the words are threatened. Things I do alone. Cloistering myself from the realities I sometimes would rather not deal with; making up my own pseudo realities. Writing for myself first; the reader a secondary consideration.

Didion may have laid bare the writer’s inner core in her first paragraph:

I

I

I

A repetition of self-absorption. If imposing oneself upon other people is self-serving, then I agree with Didion. Writers are asking readers to “listen to me, see it my way, change your mind.” But I can’t agree with her that writing is an aggressive, even a hostile act. Passive-aggressive maybe, camouflaging anger or dissatisfaction between the lines. Definitely bold and assertive, providing the writer possesses the essential qualities of self-love. I’ve never felt aggressive while engaged in storytelling. More self-contained, less belligerent.

Reading my be another selfish activity. One we engage in for ourselves. I’ve always been a healthy reader, enjoying books almost as much as I enjoy producing my own tales. Maybe the two actions are related. Both are escapist endeavors. Both are self-contained. Both allow me to insinuate myself into other worlds. Maybe I write because I enjoy reading. Maybe I’m trying to emulate some of the great authors I’ve read, to mold myself after them. Whatever, my love of reading has definitely influenced my love of writing. I’m a firm believer you have to love to read to write.

I once believed writers were born, much like the myth about athletes. After much struggle with the exercise, I’ve come to realize writers are made, not born. Writing is hard work, and to write well a person has to work hard. Albeit, I may not be able to say with any accuracy why I write, but I do believe many people do not write because it is hard work.

Why do I tinker around with writing? I’m not sure I know. It may always remain a mystery. What I know is I like doing it. I like the way I feel when I’ve completed a piece to my satisfaction. See the I...I...I? Could I write because I’m self-centered and selfish? Maybe.

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