March 6th, 2007 : Why Do I Write?
I don’t really know if this article is ready for public consumption, but I offer it out reguardless. Actually, several of my pieces of writing shouldn’t but online here, but they are.
I like to write. Writing is an intellectual activity, it provides an outlet to a higher level of thinking, when you write you are allowed to be more vague, more hypothetical. Conceptual. Writing gives an option to explore new ideas, different views, gives opportunity for a larger use of vocabulary.
I write because I can’t spell. I don’t know why or how this makes me write, but I am constantly using spell check and correcting the little red lines under my words. Part of it is just typos, something my mind can’t allow to be left in place. Before I know it my fingers hitting delete and it is like the mistake was never made.
I write because it allows me to be a perfectionist. I can correct mistakes, go back and fix things. I can revise until it meets the standards of my mind. If I were to talk it would be more spontaneous, less structured, without much of a chance to think about what I need to say. Writing is a way for me to think about things before I say them.
I write because it’s easier then talking to people. If you don’t want to tell someone something it’s a lot easier to tell something to a sheet of paper or a computer screen, and let the computer screen tell someone. It’s easy to express emotion or frustration on paper. You can make sure you are saying what you really want to say and say it in the best way possible. You also don’t need to worry about instant feedback. You can let your message soak in before you talk to them again, or hear back from them. You can say things to a sheet of paper that you wouldn’t just go out and say to someone’s face, even if you know that that someone will be reading the paper. In some ways it is almost a crutch.
I write because I can. I feel adapt to the challenge, it allows me to remember feelings or concepts that I had at one time. Even if I never go back to look at them, I still rest in the secure knowledge that I have it all saved somewhere.
I write because I am a pack rat. I save things, everything. You never know when you need something, an old box, parts from disassembled pinball machines, alarm clocks, bread makers, dishwasher, computers. Clips and nuggets of text that I may never use, but are all there, safe and sound, waiting for the perfect opportunity to be used.