It’s interesting that I find myself in this space, contemplating why I write.
What prompted this you might ask? Well, I started a course on Novel Writing last week. I had missed the first week’s lecture because I was away, but when I attended the second week’s class, I was thankful and reassured that I had made the right decision in taking this course before embarking on the journey to writing my first novel.
You see, I’ve always dreamed of writing a book, but once upon a time, I had thought of it as impossible for me; but then when I finally reconciled with the idea that I could actually write, all other excuses formed a stumbling block.
However, would I not be a hypocrite if I keep telling others to follow their passions fiercely and fearlessly while I shy away from mine?
So I finally decided that enough was enough, and it was time to chew on a mound of my own advice.
In the first class I attended, I learned that the homework that had been given the previous week was to write a page on ‘Why I write’, and although I missed it, my tutor encouraged me to do it anyway and read it to the class next week, just like my other peers had done this week.
So here goes:
Why I Write
For the longest time, I loved to make up stories in my head. Sometimes I wrote it down, and other times, I didn’t. I used to write them down in the hopes that someday someone would stumble upon them and marvel at the stories, but not being exactly sure of myself, I stopped writing altogether.
Since no one was going to see them, there was no point in penning them. It was no use. I could enjoy the stories in my head and cherish them.
Then one day all that changed. In what started as a gamble, an experiment of sorts, I became a writer.
I was being asked to write a series and I was both excited and flabbergasted.
What, me? Really?
Well, I carried on like it had been planned all along.
So there I was, writing again and the joy in the process was awakened once again.
Now I had a purpose. I had been salvaged and given another chance, and it was time to run away with it.
Now when I write, I write to inform, to enlighten, to entertain, but most especially to share myself.
Those people that I might never otherwise have shared my thinking or my ideas or my passions with, can experience it in my writing. They get to see the side of me that I do not offer forthrightly, and it offers a respite from whatever it is that may be consuming their lives and they experience a different dimension.
In my writing, I’m honest. I try as much as I can to offer the unadulterated me.
But don’t be assuming because in my writing, I can aim to shock. To evoke the emotion I want from you because I want to share my stories, my guiles and my desires.
I write for a multitude of reasons, and to pin it down to one is to tell a lie.
In my writing, I am free. My mind wanders; it twirls, it swirls and it dances to it’s own rhythm, and after it all, I’m at peace, for in my writing, I find me-The dreamer.
In my writing, I let out the emotions I cease to express or lash out. It’s freeing in itself, and provides a form of catharsis.
But despite all of this, maybe there’s no one reason for why I write.
There’s no why to why I write, there just is.
I write because I can.