This assignment was to write a thousand words essay on “Why I Write.”
What a perplexing proposition.
Why do I write?
I could first simply state that I don’t. Well, I at least do not write enough. I can not match with words, the speed of my imagination and ideas. I know with complete certainty that I will never be able to finish the complete catalog of storylines and non-fiction volumes that I have listed in my journal like a proper penmonkey.
That mere truth makes me want to not even begin one.
But that’s just whining and while I want to do it, I don’t respect it, so…
I could say next that I write to quiet the voices in my head. Like in the film, A Beautiful Mind, the chattering academics are always conspiring with no small amount of vociferous palaver. As I write, they walk away to side. Oh, yes, they continue their distracting blather, but they are at a distance and I can’t really hear them while my fingers are typing and my brain fluid congeals in the temperature of another world, where my pulse races and my syntax begs for another shot of tequila (or an editor proper)
In all honesty (not that I’ve been lying up to this point), I believe that the reason that I write is because I fundamentally believe that:
WORDS CREATE WORLDS.
In case you missed the all caps, let me say that again. The main reason that I write is because I fundamentally believe that:
WORDS CREATE WORLDS.
Nothing else can do it. Nothing. Words. That’s all. With painting you can catch a glimpse, a Polaroid, a snapshot of the world in someone else’s imagination. A song can provide a mood, a soundtrack, a story that some bard tells in a tavern, but a work of prose, a story; there you can taste the beer in the tavern, smell the stench of a thousand nights in the sand, see the suns of an alien moon, dance with ghosts, gorge yourself on the feast of kings, taste the bloody bile of the defeat of battle, peak with passion unfettered, speak in the tongue of angels, hold hands with the devil, sweat, shiver, construct sentences that seem as though they will never quite get to the end…
And then start all over again and call it the second in a trilogy.
In the beginning, God spoke and all became.
Words created all.
Where there wasn’t, words were and all was.
Anyone who has been told that “Sticks and stones may break your bones,” has been told this because words have crushed their souls. Somehow.
Words have power.
They are explosive.
They are tender.
They are wild.
They are untamable.
They are unyielding.
Their absense creates silence.
One small letter tripping after another, however, spells the thundering cataclysm of the birth of novae.
Words spur romance. They are lusty and chaste. Strung together correctly, they can lead you to a Wedding night; and nobly to a funeral pyre. They can knot your stomach in a grotesque tryst of betrayal, or drench your pillow in tears of unquestionable loyalty.
Words are swords to be yielded.
They are dangerous in even the most trained of hands.
They draw blood without intention and often times miss their mark.
However, Words Create Worlds.
They create worlds like the grandiose dreams of a Sub-Saharan Queen packed densely away into the locket she wears around her neck and never removes; touching it often.
Words throw a reader into a nightmare of their greatest unmaking. One sentence and darkness is never the same. Water is never the same. Solitude is then a death sentence.
They make strong men see themselves as straw and straw men as lions. They are the stuff of legend and song, history would be nothing more than a memory long forgotten of something someone used to know.
I write to create worlds and to describe the world I know, the way I see it. The way I believe that it should be seen.
It is an unwieldy amount of power. Responsibility. Acceptance. But no damsel was ever rescued by a good idea. They rode off with the knight because he was a man of actions. A man of deed.
Is there a greater deed than giving life to a universe with a word? Is there a finer, more nobler action?
While I’m sure there is, I haven’t written it yet.
It is still waiting to be.
In book number three.
Or…it’s entirely possible that I write for another reason, or reasons, entirely.