I feel most at home with a pen resting within my hand, or keys eagerly awaiting beneath my fingertips to be poked and prodded into prose.
Recently, I read an essay by George Orwell entitled “Why I Write.” Initially, he walks his reader through his childhood and the moment he discovered joy for “mere words.” It made me think about why I have chosen to write. Why from the ripe age of 7 I have kept a journal noting every menial event of my life. Or what my motive was at the age of 18 to yearn to become a journalist.
I then began to think about WHAT I write. I compose music and lyrics, which to some has poetic qualities while I completely reject the idea of writing a poem and I solely gravitate toward prose. Now, I flea also from journalistic writing. It lacks heart and character. It’s sole purpose is to inform and remain objective. I spent four years in a newsroom attempting to keep up with the hustle and bustle of every day tragedies and moments of public interest. My once idealized vision of writing for a cities head newspaper slowly dripped away, leaving me still with my fiery passion for words.
Now, I write for myself. I dream of writing a collection of short stories about, well, anything. I no longer have to please an editor of the mass public. No longer is my work being compromised for lack of space due to a large advertisement, or for the opinion of one of my fellow journalists being more worthy of the space.
So, maybe it doesn’t really matter WHY I write. Maybe al that matters is that I have now found a way to write. Or, even more simply, let it just be that I do write.
coffee for one 