Why I Write

After a tumultuous year spent writing a thesis, I came to wonder why I started writing in the first place. Apparently, I love writing enough to get a Master’s degree in it. There were times in my life where writing something was a necessity to get through the day. Yet because of thesis, I’ve stopped writing. All writing has become a chore. My blogs are suffering because of it.

So why did I start writing?

I started writing because I wanted to be heard. As a kid, I never really felt that people listened to what I had to say. I was told an infinite number of times “you talk too much” or “stop talking.” I was silenced. I had no outlet for my musings, thoughts, or emotions. They had no place to go. Furthermore, I had feelings that most perceived as irrational. How could I talk about something that most people didn’t think was worth talking about? I had some friends growing up, but really, who wants to listen for hours on end to a rambler?


For instance, I got a pink diary with a lock for my 9th birthday.  I still have the key in an old jewelry box in the top of my closet. The first entry says:

August 9, 1995

Today is my birthday. Ths my friends S slept over. They were being mean to me. Yesterday my friend said “Just becuse tomorrow is your birthday means you can have the light on.” (Flashlight on seling) Then I had ters in my eyes.

Apparently, this was a painful experience for an oversensitive nine-year-old on her birthday. Darn it! I wanted to play with the flashlight on the ceiling when we were supposed to be sleeping.

And still, I’m an oversensitive adult, at present, lacking an appropriate outlet for my, at times, emotional overflow. So I’m forcing myself to go back to writing. No pressure to post every week on a certain day (sorry guys), but I have to write something everyday.

When I was in high school, and the first year or so of college I maintained a diary at freeopendiary.com.  Do you remember that site? (Don’t bother looking for my diary, they went on a deleting spree a number of years ago, and it is gone).  I wrote any and all of my business online for people to read, and I would hope and pray for comments and advice. I’d hope that people in the internet world would care about how I was doing.  Needless to say, they didn’t.

I have found in my course of study there is some debate going on about whether writing for others to read is a truly, justifiable reason to write.  I always get the feeling that “true” writers feel that it is taboo: that a real writer writes solely for the craft of writing– like any other pursuant of the arts. It’s true we certainly don’t do it because we expect to make lots of money– but we do hope that we can reach people on a profound level while making lots of money. That would make us really happy, knowing that people give a enough of a crap about what we are saying to actually pay us.

I used to write for myself. I enjoyed when I came up with a particular line, passage or poem that I loved for the sheer way it sounded. Once upon a time , I wrote just to organize my thoughts, or figure something out. I’d write because I was bored. My teenage years were filled with angst and drama: I needed an outlet.

Working for a movie theater when I was sixteen, I’d often find myself in the unfortunate position as the ticket taker on a slow night. I’d flip over the back of movie schedules and just write and write. About what, I can’t remember.  I have so many notebooks and random papers stashed away, you’d think I’d had an addiction to writing.  I’m not like that anymore. It seems that life has gotten in the way.

Right now in my life I’m dealing (barely) with all sorts of stress. And instead of expressing myself the way I used to, I’ve been bottling. At this rate I’ll burst like mentos in a coke bottle.

So now, I write to be heard. Blogging is such a public activity– I mean, I can’t tell you everything. I would like to have a job one day. But I write for you guys/gals out there reading. It’s nice to know that someone out there is listening, and that someone can hear me. (And I hope you aren’t judging me.) I spent a lot of time in my life hurting (as nine-year-old me can attest to), and I just want to be able to communicate, and work through my fears and insecurities.

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