Why I Write
If someone were to ask me: “Why do you write?” I might respond with a question of my own.
“Why do you breathe?”
​
​
Said person would most definitely be offended if I were misinterpreted, if I were not careful with my tone. But hopefully my response would eventually cause them to think: what a strange thing to ask someone. Because it’s not a question as to why. It’s more a matter of you have to breathe. If you didn’t, you would die. So you breathe, at all times, likely without even thinking or being aware of doing so. That’s why I write. Because I have to. Because -- at the risk of sounding completely overdramatic -- if I didn’t I might die.
​
​
Throughout my lifetime, I’ve dreamt of becoming many things: a dancer, an actress, a filmmaker, an author, a journalist. Despite my desire to pursue anything and everything, my constant fear of being bored, and lack of decision making skills, there has always been a common denominator in each profession I’ve considered: telling stories. I’ve always told stories. I want nothing more than to continue doing so. Here’s why:
​
​
-
I have to tell stories because people that don’t really exist live inside my brain, begging for me to find out what happens to them next.
-
I have to type for sometimes hours at a time because otherwise perfect days and past loves and memories associated with favorite songs will be lost forever, swept away like the wind with the rest of the days that become ordinary in the grand scheme of things.
-
I have to write because of things I wish I did but couldn't bring myself to say to Grandpa on his deathbed, because sometimes words that are too big and scary for a breath can fit easier on a page
-
I have to empty thoughts onto a loose piece of paper because sometimes the emotions that swim in my veins become too big for one person alone.
-
Lists. Have I mentioned I adore lists?
​
​
When I was 12, my laptop crashed, destroying all of the stories I worked tirelessly on since I first began writing. Discouraged, I had trouble convincing myself a future in writing was still possible. After losing my countless hours worth of writing and storytelling and world-building, (and discovering the God-send that is a flash drive a little too late) I desired to give up. Losing all that work felt like some kind of sick trick of the universe. As a fragile girl not even considered a teenager yet, it felt like a slap in the face, like Universe was saying: “Ha, take that. Now you have no choice but to painstakingly rewrite everything or just give up and never write again. Have fun deciding which will be first to eat you alive.”
​
​
If I could’ve glared and shook my tiny fist at Universe in that moment, I would have.
Instead, I took a hiatus from writing and started exploring other interests. I made the volleyball team, focused more on school, spent less hours holed up in my room with my laptop crafting characters. But eventually, I found my way back. I couldn’t help it. There were still emotions overwhelming my senses, villains to defeat, cities to build, poetry to be written, and as always: stories to be told.
​
​
Not
​
​
writing
​
​
had eaten me
​
​
alive.
​
​
Without writing, I was alive but that was all I managed to be. Not full of creativity, promise, or possibility. Not bursting at the seams with excitement to discover worlds and words. Not free from the weight of emotions bottled up inside of me for far too long.
​
​
It wasn’t until I saw some very good advice from a writer whose name I don’t recall on Pinterest one day (because what middle school girl in the early 2000s didn’t scroll through Pinterest to pass the time) that my world finally righted itself on its axis once again. Paraphrasing from memory, they stated that you’re a writer if you can’t bear not to write. Seeing that post shifted something within my soul. And with that shift came understanding. I didn’t have to be some New York Times columnist some day, or a Nobel Prize winning novelist. If I grew up to earn my salary off of lines of prose I spit out of my fingers, I’d be extremely lucky. But even if I didn’t, I could continue to write anyway. Nobody and nothing could deprive me of that fact.
​
​
That revelation felt like a promise of safety.
​
​
It was a relief.
​
​
Like I could finally breathe again.
​
​
To put it simply, I write because I can’t bear not to. It comes as naturally as breathing.