WHY I WRITE.

Photo: "Skitch Writing"
Taken By Spousal Unit
Edited By Skitch

NOW:



     Sometimes you just have to have a good cry. Two nights ago I had one. I started thinking about how a writer is a lot like a prophet: “Truly I tell you,” he continued, “no prophet is accepted in his hometown." Luke 4:24
     
     I've always wanted others to hunger for my words, and I've long felt that they would. But, quite frankly, to those who know me best, my writing is of little interest. I used to keep my journals locked up. Now that's a bit of a joke. No one bothers to read my words, not even those secret ones I write to myself. For a while, thinking of that upset me greatly. As I confessed, I had a good cry over it. I wondered why anyone would ever read my work when those nearest and dearest to me could not muster much interest. If those who LOVED me did not hunger for my work how would anyone ever? And this is not just a person or two. This is across the board. My parents, spouse, children, sisters, best friend, cousins, etc show little interest in my writing. The only exception being my sister. She not only read my novel, she helped me edit it. But she's shown no interest in anything since, and that was many years ago. A few cousins and friends also read it but they've largely done the same. And I was hurt about that, for a time. Then I realized that when people knew me less they found me more interesting. I've published several poems and some short stories. These are the exact same poems I had to practically corner people and force into their ears, the same short stories that I received mostly criticism for when I read them to the those closest to me. A writer is not accepted in his hometown. 

     I think it has something to do with the idea that writers are arrogant. The general consensus seems to be that if you dare to write something down on paper and expect others to listen to it or read it and (God forbid) like it then you are, as my people call it, "putting on airs" or "getting above your raising". It is the same idea that made being a writer such a frightening prospect in the first place, the same thing that inspired me to hold that secret dream deep inside me like a hatching robin's egg. And yet, the fear of it kept it alive as well. I went after the adventure of writing, in part, because it's important to face your fears. Nothing scared me more than admitting to a dream that big; nothing was any more terrifying than bleeding my introverted mind out on that blank piece of paper for anyone and everyone to read. I often don't know what I'm doing or what to expect in this world, but that time I saw the good cry coming. I was right to be afraid. It is a painful, lonely world, the writers world.

     People read my writing. I know they do; I can see the stats. It's not my friends and my family usually but some stoic Russians bend over these words and try to understand the thoughts and feelings of a writer that is not from their hometown. And one day, I hope that my sons, or their children, or my great grandchildren, or one great-great-great grandchild brought to me by blood and/or a lovely adoption will take an interest in these words, in the mental meanderings of someone that loved them before they were born. And so I write. I write for the Far Reader, the Far Russian, The Far Child, and for my own peace of mind . I write to boldly face who I am, to know me. I write because I must face my fears. I write because if I don't I'm miserable. 


     Did I share these fears and this horrible writers arrogance with you because I like to whine about how my friends and family aren't interested in my work? No. Was it because I like to be afraid and I enjoy "putting on airs"? No, I share this with you because I'm a writer, because I'm miserable when I deny my fingers the pen or the keyboard. I share these words because somewhere, someday, someone will read them and say, "Yes, I must write. No matter how foolish they think I am, no matter how much they criticize my work, no matter how many good crys it has brought me, I must write!" I share this so that person will know: Those around you aren't going to give you the support you crave; you must give it to yourself. If you are a writer, if you have chosen this lonely world, or it has chosen you then write for yourself, for your far children, for the stoic Russians, to face your fears, to keep from being miserable. Find a reason -- or ten -- and write!