“Words are, of course, the most powerful drug used by mankind.”
--Rudyard Kipling
A friend recently posted this article about author Joy Williams' take on "Why Writers Write." Declaring the post a good read, I shared it with another writer friend who eloquently stated why she writes. Being the smart alec that I am, I merely replied, "Usually, I write to make fun of stuff." While that is true as you can glean from past blog posts, I think I owe my dear friend a better answer. After all, she is partially to blame for me gaining the confidence to just write.
This might be one of the most convoluted answers to a simple question I've ever given. Such is the danger when a writer "free writes" or starts typing before knowing which words will appear on the screen. Some words may end up on the cutting room floor. That is not to say that each word is not an important character in my prose. Perhaps they will reappear in future features. For now, though, please meet the cast of the first episode of "Why I Write."
I look out the window, at the light snow falling from the gray-white sky. Looking out the window has been a favorite past time since I can remember. A skill I learned from my Dad, it is an art form to be developed. A talent to be harnessed. The power of observation does not come easily, and often goes unappreciated. Sitting in the calm, early on a Saturday. Just watching. Even the gentle hum seeping through the window seams is visualized in my mind.
I want to tell the world the beauty that I see.
As I go to speak, there is a bitch inside that is awaken. It's been a while since she's appeared. I forget sometimes that she is there. She senses my urge to share my thoughts with spoken word and quickly grabs hold of my larynx. So I don't speak. But the words are still there. They have to come out.
"Not that way," she says.
Then how? The words will consume me if they don't come out. They are filling my lungs as we speak. They are impatient words. They are fighters. They won't stop knocking.
"If you must let the words out, then fine, let them out," she relents.
Finally, I open my mouth to speak, but quickly feel the grasp tighten.
"I said not that way."
I was wrong. This bitch is relentless.
Then how? How do I tell people how soothing the city noise is? How do I explain the humanity of my brick and mortar and iron surroundings? How do I share the wonders of my world? How do I describe the feelings I feel but cannot act upon? How do I tell the strangers I just met all about this world from which I came?
How do I say these things if you won't let me speak?
She ponders for a moment, searching for a compromise.
"You need to get these words out?"
Yes.
"You won't rest until you do?"
Correct.
"Your mind will run wild until the words are released?"
Exactly.
"You insist on speaking even though I will not let you speak?"
Yes. I need to.
"Then write."