Why I write.

In a paper entitled “Why I write” George Orwell claimed that many writers write out of sheer egotism and from my experience as an aspiring writer I’d have to agree with Mr Orwell.  After all he was not merely an aspiring writer, but rather a great one.

Many, not all, writers have the desire to have their work recognised. The American writer William Faulkner is quoted as saying “Don’t be a writer. Be writing.” With respect to Orwell, I think Faulkner had a better point. It means nothing to simply call yourself a writer. It means something to write.

 Truth be told it’s not easy being a writer. It’s not easy stringing a bunch of words together like the charms on an expensive bracelet. Pluck one loose and the rest fall into a pile on the floor. Scattered pieces of something that used to be beautiful, but now has no meaning. We write simply because we can. We know how to. As difficult as this may seem to believe, writing is hard. Finding the right words to express something is far from comfortable, yet why then am I so ready to sacrifice my time and sanity for a life consumed by the words?

I write because I believe that the world speaks to me. I see the world through different angles. Like looking though a camera lens. A different story can be told if you just change your perspective.  I write, because there is so much beauty around me that needs to be described. I write, because even the string of words in a sentence can be beautiful.

Writing is an emotionally fuelled activity. You write about something that angers or disturbs you; something that causes you joy or deep sorrow. Writing is the spilling of these emotions on a page.  Lord Byron once said, “If I don’t write to empty my mind, I’d go mad.” Similarly, Orwell describes the desire to write as a demon that one can ‘neither resist nor understand.’ For Orwell, and for me, writing seems to be a natural instinct. A way of making sense of the world we live in.

That is why I write.  I write so that I can make sense of all that is going on in this confused mind of mine. I write to make sense of the ‘what ifs?’  That which could have been. Or that what might be, if I give it life.  I write, because every moment of every day I am surrounded by untold stories. Stories of pain and stories of joy. There are stories of adventures; of failures and of victories. I write, because, like Byron, I would go mad if the words and stories in my head did not have an escape. I write, because it’s the one thing in my life that makes sense. 

Nick, from the New Girl