In class I was disappointed to discover that my professor found that article to be a joke. For a brief moment I felt ashamed about what I wrote. But as time passed I realized how much thoughts change reality. This is a man who encourages everyone to write because he believes that anyone can develop that craft. He doesn't speak like a writer at heart. He's someone who worked at developing that skill successfully. So he would never understand what it's like for someone like me. The passion and intensity behind why some of us write must seem dramatic and exaggerated, but it actually isn't.
That's when my mentor's message finally sunk in. I'm not writing for others; I'm writing for myself. When I understood that I made peace with the reality that others will have a differing opinion, and that's okay. By being able to finally appreciate an opposing view, I was able to feel comfort in my own writing. I've never felt comfortable in my own writing before. I felt comfortable with the act of writing but not by the craft unless I received approval. Things are different. Times are changing, bitches!
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I write because I’m a writer at heart. I write because writing’s my first love, always. I write because it speaks to the core of who I am, but I have no idea who that is. I want nothing more than to find out, so I write. I write because it’s my passion. I write because it frees me from the burdens that weigh on me. I write because it’s cheaper than therapy. I write because it’s the most effective way for me to self-reflect. I write because I’m bombarded with excessive thoughts that torment me until I release myself of them. I write to discover myself. I write to face my fears. I write to define my fears. I write to feel. The disconnectedness that I’m cursed with slowly escapes me as writing helps me understand emotions and brings me closer to my feelings. I write to escape my thoughts. I write to hang onto the past. I write to hold onto the memories. I write to move forward. I write for my future. I write to appreciate the moment. I write because it’s soothing. I write to fill my hunger, my craving, this desire that gently dissolves as I fill blank pages with words until I have to start all over again before I burst into tears and breakdown. I write because the rollercoaster that is my life never seems to stop or slow down. If I can’t get off the ride without dying, I have to learn to adapt to the environment I’m trapped in. I write to escape the trap, metaphorically speaking. I write to make sense of this world. I write to make sense of myself. I write to better manage my life. I write in an attempt to seek balance. I write to distract myself from the pains in my life I desperately want to evade. I write in hopes that expressing my suffering will transfer the pain and it bleeds into the paper, draining it out of my life. I write to write; I write to feel. I identify as a writer. To understand this world, I have to harness the writer within me or else I’ll always be a stranger in a strange land, forever trapped in a cloud of confusion. How can I ever learn to enjoy life if I can’t even see it for what it is? I write to evolve. I write to transform myself into a better version of myself. I write to help me on the path to being the person I’m meant to be but, most importantly, I write to be the person I want to become, whoever that is. I write because no one is better able to help me than me. And the key to helping myself is to better understanding myself. I write to understand….everything.
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