Why Do I Write?
Why do I write?
Is it to impress?
I don’t write to impress. I’m well aware of the fact that my skills in writing are nowhere near excellent. I am not even halfway my journey to excellence in writing. I am not sure if I’ll get there before I breathe my last. I have a long long way to go. Perhaps I may need a dozen of lifetimes (or more) in order to surpass the accomplishments of the likes of William Shakespeare, Elizabeth Browning, George Bernard Shaw, Leo Tolstoy and the likes.
So, why do I write then?
Do I write in the hope that I earn money and become famous?
Fame and money are not my primary motivations for writing. Of course I need money. It’s hypocritical to say that I don’t like to have additional numbers to the farthest north of the first digit in my bank account. With a family and a mother to support, with siblings asking for financial help once in a while, and with the projects I intend to embark on, I need additional sources of income.
“There’s no money in writing” is a cliche. But that’s the truth. Writing is not very financially rewarding. Unless you are a script writer of one of the popular TV networks or movie outfits in your own country or a novelist who belongs in the league of the likes of J.K. Rowling, Dan Brown and Stephen King.
Of course I am receiving extra cash for some of the stuffs I have written. For example, the university that employs me currently (2014 – present) paid me close to 500 US dollars for my research work that was published in an international journal in 2016. They would also drop almost a 100 US dollars to my bank account whenever I contribute an article for the university’s English publication.
Not much right? But it’s still a blessing that makes me close my eyes and thank the Supreme Being that I believe exits.
The rewards that writing gives, for me, are hard to quantify. Such rewards are transcendental. That’s not me trying to sound philosophical. That’s just the way I feel about it.
What about fame? What about the accolades? Are those the the things that inspire me to write?
As a matter of fact, when I write and allow people to read my works I am unnecessarily putting myself under the microscope. Instead of accolades I may get negative comments instead. This is the reason a friend said he would never write for any publication or post any writings on any of the social networking sites. He is afraid he may not be able to take negative comments. In my case, criticisms are welcome. As a matter of fact, I have already received some. I have to admit that I have some works, both in English and Filipino, where my grammar sucks. That’s the reason I keep rereading my stuffs in this website to check for mistakes.
I know why erasers were invented. It’s because nobody’s perfect.
People may read or disregard what I write. If they do read, a million thanks. If not, well… that’s life.
I may have received some good comments from my friends for some of my writings in the past. But of course, those comments may have been either meritorious or simply generous. Sometimes there are people who give positive and encouraging compliments.
But aside from good comments some of my works have also angered some individuals who in one way or another were offended. Writing sometimes is a magnet for trouble. I remember quite well when I wrote a satirical poem in Filipino (about a wolf in sheep’s clothing) when I was working in a Catholic college. The parish priest who felt alluded to reportedly asked the Sister-President of the college, my superior, to summon me to the latter’s office so he could talk to me. However he was dissuaded from pursuing his request. But even if he was able to convince the President and the College Dean then, I wouldn’t go. Why? That poem I wrote and my act of writing it have nothing to do with my employment. My being a writer has no personality and office that could be connected to any of the lines that run vertical and horizontal in our organizational chart. The priest never bugged me again but I wrote another poem for him (Habit and Habit). At least I discovered that he was reading my poems.
My quatrains are the ones that brought me some colorful moments. I have lost a friend or two (or is it three… perhaps more) for the quatrains I have posted in a social networking site. I once wrote a quatrain and a friend liked it. Almost a year later, I re-posted the same quatrain and surprisingly the same person who previously liked it was angered and gave me a mouthful. He’s like a brother to me so I had to explain. He understood, apologized, and we both forgot about it since then.
Also, my writings where my political beliefs are in full display had me losing very dear friends. This is the reason I stopped writing commentaries about politics in the Philippines during the second half of 2017.
So, why do I write then?
Is it for the “likes,” “reactions,” and compliments I get when I have those poems, stories, and essays posted in my social networking accounts or in this website? Not also. Of course those things make me happy and I am so thankful for those friends who take time to read my works.
Then, why? Why do I write?
It’s hard to explain. It’s something like why do people need to eat when they are hungry… why do they need to drink when they are thirsty… why do they need to take medicine when they are sick.
There is a kind of hunger within me that only writing can satisfy. There’s an insatiable thirst in my soul that would go away only when I read what I write. I suffer from a very mysterious illness that goes away only when I write in sentences or verses the equivalent words of the thoughts and feelings that drown me during quiet moments in my life.
Writing is my endorphin.
I must release my pain, anger and disagreement by writing about them or else they will haunt me endlessly. When I feel wronged I have to respond, not by violent means. I respond in a creative manner… through poems… sometimes satirical. I do it usually using anthropomorphism.
If the spirits of William Shakespeare and Elizabeth Browning I could not summon through the glass to inspire me to express in poetry whatever I wish to say then I turn to Francis Bacon and Michel de Montaigne’s way of capturing into words… essays… whatever it is that I wish to convey. if I don’t wish to be so direct with my points and would like to hide my feelings and thoughts between lines and behind symbolism then I walked the path that Edgar Allan Poe and Guy de Maupassan paved. I write stories.
I just don’t keep quiet when I notice human follies, especially if displayed by my friends. Again I resort to anthropomorphism. I use animals to represent their irrationalities. It may hurt them and make them angry but the truth may be bitter but sweeter than the sweetest lie. VERO NIHIL VERIUS. Nothing is truer than the truth.
This is not saying that I am a perfect human being. I am as imperfect as anyone else and may have, perhaps, done more terrible things. Thus, the satires I wrote are like boomerangs. They hit me also.
Pain is like a prison cell. It is by writing that I break free from that hell. As my heart churns out the words, I go through the pain, feel it… not escape from it. And as I write the final sentence or verse, as I put the final punctuation mark, the pain vanishes.
Even my happiness and satisfaction wouldn’t be complete if I do not write about them. I need to capture in either prose or poetry those moments so I can feel more deeply the joy they bring. I do write about them so I can relive those moments any time I wish to.
I write not to impress but rather to express my thoughts, feelings and ideals. Writing is my freedom… my happiness.
I need neither material rewards nor accolades for what I have written (and will be writing.) The poems, essays and stories I create are themselves the rewards. I love and treasure them.
I don’t write to satisfy anybody’s standards. I have my own way of expressing my innermost thoughts and feelings.
I write because I want to. I have my own style. As simple as that.
SCRIBO, ERGO SUM. I write, therefore I am.