Why Write?
Why write? Well, why do anything? As with other endeavors, writing seems to take hostage certain individuals and insist they engage in the medium. Whether they do so begrudgingly or with a grin makes no matter to the captor, so long as the task is accomplished. In a similar vein, Christopher Hitchens once advised that, "if you want to write it must be the thing not that you want to do or would like to do, it must be the thing you feel you have to do. It must be that without which you could not live." Many writers speak of their chosen profession in this manner. Not as a desire to be fulfilled, but rather an itch to be scratched or a burden to be shouldered.
My own experience has been similar. I cannot seem to escape the idea that I'm supposed to be writing. That doesn't mean I enjoy it ipso de facto. Nor does it imply that I have some great, walled-up sluice that will come spilling out once I finally manage to unshackle the bulging floodgates. Instead, I suspect the going to be rather rough at the outset and to become increasingly manageable over time. Lubrication–by means of alcohol of course–seems to help. (The pathetic cliché of which, is not lost on me.) This seemingly irresistible pull however, is not the only motivation identifiable within myself. There are others, and at least three of those appear to me in a form discernible enough to summarize.
The first and primary reason I shall relate was long ago identified by Friedrich Nietzsche in the form of a dialogue.
"B: But why, then, do you write? A: Well, my friend, let me tell you in confidence: I have yet to find any other means of getting rid of my thoughts."
I am one of those blessed souls who can enjoy their own internal dialogue for quite some time before growing bored. I do not feel alone with my thoughts–I'm very much at home with friends. But nothing spoils a friendship faster than when one does not know when it is time to leave. The art (and it is an art) of the adieu cannot be understated. One can sense it in the extended silence between verbal exchanges, identify it by the too-long empty glass, and see it in the furtive glances of the host at the nearest clock. Be gone with you! Even if you are beloved, you are no longer welcome. And it is your duty to observe the signs and meet them with concession.
This is how I feel about thoughts, even some of my most cherished revelations. These wonderful achievements of the mind must eventually buzz off and make room for other guests. This does not mean the thoughts cannot return later, especially if they saunter back bearing gifts or new friends. It only means, for the time being, they are not welcome. But thoughts are not like people. They lack totally any sort of social awareness. They are selfish, pernicious little beasts who won’t walk out the door without a boot in their backside. And what is this boot? Writing, of course. Once written down they are released from their socially inept state and become agreeable friends who come and go with invitation. So if one ever wishes to have a new thought (a terrifying proposition to some, though they wouldn't admit it), then the old ones must be dispensed.
A mind in which thoughts can come and go with ease can be identified by its sharp and clever manner. If the reader hasn't figured it out by now, travelling constitutes only half the cosmopolitan equation. It is exponentially more dangerous to the intellect to recycle the same thoughts than it is to stay in the same place, especially considering the accessibility of the internet and the spread of multiculturalism. And it is worth noting, if one only has a small scattering of thoughts in their head, they are most surely boring beyond compare–especially in conversation.
Now for the next inducement to take up the pen. There is an oft repeated word of advice that proposes that if one cannot explain a concept succinctly, they cannot explain it at all. Though I don't believe this to be true in all cases–after all some things are incredibly complex–it is true in many. Putting an idea into one's own words has a sort of crystalizing effect on the subject. The matter becomes increasingly accessible in conversation and easily recapitulated in writing. As an added bonus, now that one has pressured this thought into solid form, it can be used as a base upon which to stack other gems. Eventually, one will have for themselves a great treasure trove of ideas, concepts, and thoughts that are immediately accessible when called upon, even in the heat of argument. That is to say, writing makes one a better student and a wiser teacher.
The third motivation finds its origin in my metaphysic. So far as I can tell, the closest I will get to immortality (not that I'm sure of the inherit benevolence of that state) is in the preservation of my thoughts in print. If nothing else, I do hope to be remembered and to have contributed something of value to my fellow creatures. Furthermore, I am certain more value exists in creation than consumption, and I do not wish to waste all my days salivating over the latter. Which begs the question, why did it take me so long to pick up the pen?
In his essay Why I Write, George Orwell reflects on his own journey. "Between the ages of about seventeen and twenty-four I tried to abandon this idea, but I did so with the consciousness that I was outraging my true nature and that sooner or later I should have to settle down and write books." Now while I wouldn't so much as dare to draw a comparison between Orwell and myself, I can say that I have tingled with a similar sensation. A part of me required respite after graduating from university. Another part of me felt I wasn't quite ready and should continue with my studies and readings, which is a ceaselessly employable excuse. But I have decided that now must be the time. If I don't begin now, while I can still flex the omniscience of my youth, then I fear I will find myself unable to muster the required self-belief down the road. And, after all, I am right.
The above constitutes what has dragged me to this point. If pressed, I can also perceive through the fog of desire a fourth reason, which is–I love a good fight. Grant me one last invocation of the Hitch.
"Never be a spectator of unfairness or stupidity. Seek out argument and disputation for their own sake; the grave will supply plenty of time for silence."
Frankly, if I don't manage to turn up some noses, roll some eyes, and send a few choice souls dashing desperately for the nauseating relief of the nearest toilet, I won't have felt that I earned the right to die.
