For the past couple months I have had the joy of actually utilizing my writing skills for something other than personal pleasure. As any writer knows, this is somehow both exalting and diminishing. On one hand, my brain goes into super-confident overdrive with the "ohh yeah, recognize my superior word-crafting abilities and cower under the power of my carefully constructed - and impeccably grammared - sentences" line of thought. (We are going to ignore the fact that "grammared" is not technically word, which would completely undermine my overt cockiness. I make words up: deal with it.) The idea that someone would trust me to handle their written content - especially considering my affinity for inappropriate language - makes me want to dance a jig and hug strangers. Put simply, it feels good.
The downside is that I have experienced a complete zap in creative motivation. I have half-written blogs scattered throughout My Documents, gathering dust alongside my many unfinished novels and short stories. Though writing will never become a chore, it has gently shifted into a job. I'm not quite sure how I feel about this, yet. My dream has always been to somehow make a living out of my passion. Though my writing gigs are not paying my bills right now, I'm slowly working towards being a professional writer. It's terrifying.
Many people have posed me the question “why do you write?” For a girl who is always verbose and often eloquent, I usually fumble and mutter my way through a response. Lately, I find that I am the one who asks myself this question the most. Why do I write? Forcing myself to sit and evaluate this seemingly simple question, I realize there is no short, easy answer. For me, it is equal to asking a dog why he barks. Writing is not something I choose to do; it is something I have to do. It is my default.
Before I look too deeply into the matter, I need to define writing. For me, it is simply the act of putting pen to paper (or, as is most often the case these days, fingers to keyboard) and allowing thoughts to pour through me and shape themselves into a series of symbols that evolve into meaning. It is always communication. There is the writer and the audience, the latter of which is amorphous and ever changing. The audience can consist of an actual person or group of people, but it can also be the writer herself. This is highly important: writing with no audience is impossible, for the need to clearly portray thoughts into something tangible and understandable is writing.
This whole concept is why I have always written journals. At 12, sitting alone with a battered notebook and multi-colored gel pens, I wrote for myself. To write was to piece my thoughts together and turn them into something that made sense; something that the disorganized abyss that is my brain fails to do most of the time. It is more complex than that, though. I never actively think that I need to organize my thoughts when I sit down to write. I simply feel an urge. There is an itch inside of my head and the only way to appease it is to write. The act is not contemplated or premeditated; it is as involuntary as mindlessly scouring your nails over the persistent tingle of a mosquito bite. As soon as my thoughts form into words, there is an immense relief; an unburdening of my mind.
Using various mediums, people communicate on a daily basis. In the world of social networking and blogging, a large part of this communication is in written form. It’s hard to avoid having this sound like a sweeping generalization, but I would say that the majority of our communications day to day are written rather than verbal. Text messages, e-mails, Facebook, Twitter, and the list goes on. Bearing this in mind, perhaps my definition of writing needs to be amended and narrowed.
Perhaps the nuance lies in the desire to not just relate something simply with the intention of being understood on the basic levels of language and communication, but to do it in a way that is memorable and unique. It's in the redrafting. In the self-editing and perusing of the thesaurus for that perfect synonym; the delight felt over scanning your personal vocabulary for the word or phrase that perfectly captures abstract thought. In the feeling that you are forever immortalizing a tiny piece of your creativity and self in a series of letters.
My writing is an extension of myself, whether I am directly copying down my stream of conscious or dabbling in the realms of fiction. It is at once completely unique, yet informed by every other writer I have come in contact with. It evolves and matures as I do, but the heart of it always remains the same. Which is where the problem comes in, I believe. Writing for someone else feels almost like handing over my firstborn.
When you consider the fact that professional or business writing is generally severely lacking in creativity or personal tone, it seems stupid that I am having this reaction. It's like Shakespeare ghost-writing someone else's shopping list and then grieving like he handed over the rights to King Lear. Yet I can't seem to escape the squicky feeling I get over trying to sell something that I happily and energetically do for my own personal pleasure on a regular basis (does anyone else feel like I could also be talking about prostitution there?).
I am fairly certain I've managed to exhaust all of my dramatics and hyperbolic tendencies with this rambling post, which should hopefully be enough to send me to sleep. If you are reading this and managed to reach the end, your attention span is extremely commendable and you deserve baked goods and robust pats on the back. My pseudo-philosophic rants are enough to make even me go cross-eyed and I've had 24 years to develop a tolerance. I feel like maybe even some sloppy kisses and mildly-inappropriate-though-extremely-enjoyable hugs are in order. You're welcome.
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