I have wanted to do this post for forever and I probably will do this post over many times because I will always utterly fail to describe to another person why I write and why I love to read, and how they are separate yet intertwined loves.So here I go , trying to explain something that cannot ever fully be explained. This is my first official go at it on 1withthepen and I assure you there will be others, which will fail to encompass what writing is to me as well. I guess ,I don’t even know how to start or organize this… and the best solution for trying to organize something when you are clueless as to how, is just not to. I apologize for how jumbled this is, and for the rants and tangents I may go on.No! Correction… The rants and tangents I know I will go on.
I write because there are words inside of me that just… happen and I want to release them. They burn my insides, they poke and prick at me, begging to be released. Sometimes I will just be sitting somewhere, rather peacefully an out of the blue my head will begin to churn and it will build pressure and I will need to escape somehow ….anyhow and instinctively my hand picks up the pen. Even before I really started writing in fifth grade, this would happen, though I guess I never really understood why. I would have this pen and be writing things down. Sometimes the pen brings me that comfort even if I don’t physically write, for example, I can’t write in class. This happens a lot. I will be in the middle of Calculus ,for example, and the spinning will begin to take over me. I can’t just stat writing the great American novel there though, now can I? I will try and do the discreet, not so discreet, write while she is turned around at the board then hold my calculator in my hand the minute she turns around trick( which I recently learned only works when your supposed to be using your calculator.) There I will be, sitting in class, trying to play it cool as everything is jabbing itself about in my brain… And I just want to write, fast, to breathe it all out onto the page. Because writing is like breathing to me. It just happens. And I need to do it or else I feel faint and dizzy. I think that is what happens, my head spins and I get dizzy and all I want to do is write. And when I know I just can’t without getting severely yelled at and maybe having my notebook taken away, I just hold the pen. The pen brings me this great comfort because is is associated with writing. Even when I don’t need to desperately write something out but feel nervous or embarrassed, I hold the pen.Yet, the pain that I feel when those thoughts come to my head is not something I would want to avoid. Maybe I am an addict to writing? It isn’t bad. Yes ,I write because the words overwhelm me and I must set them free. But no… not like an obligation or something I do to just avoid the pain. I do writing in and of itself. Those are just side effects sort of. And that is also what writing is to me,the setting free part. It is letting myself be free of society, of the world, just my spirit flying free in the atmosphere… or another atmosphere if I so desire. Writing is dreaming on paper, it is limitless and freeing and perhaps because I constantly feel choked away by this world and the people in it… Perhaps that is also why I write. I write because when I write I learn things about the world, people and myself that just somehow I already know within myself, intuitively you could say, yet don’t know I know. The only way for me to know them and then see that somehow deep down I knew it all along is to write.When I write my spirit tells me things in my writing. I don’t even often know what I write till I reread it. it just happens. It just flows like a river from my brain onto the paper.My title of my blog, 1withthepen, I mean it very literally. I feel often that the pen and I , we just are. You know?I don’t often really think when writing as in my own creative writing, it just happens and flows like the ink. I have the pen in hand but it is like the pen and my hand work as a unit. The pen just writes, the ink flows, my spirit surges and then I feel like I can see… and I am breathing and the world is spinning uncontrollably and yet it is still and then I am done. I pick up the paper and something is on the page, or my arm or the napkin. It is just there and I reread it and I feel… I feel safe. Like somehow it will all be okay. When I first started writing it was mostly journaling, which I still do a lot of,rants like this mostly. But I would just tell the paper things, which often seem strange now. I would tell the paper that I went for a walk or ate pancakes for breakfast. But the paper listened.It’s ears picking up every drop of the ink, absorbing it and understanding and I was not afraid. I speak better on paper anyway.I write because I am me when I write. I have really begun to be myself all the time a lot more lately but it takes some work because of things like fear of what people think and embarrassment…etc…etc. With writing it has never been this way.I always talked about reality in what I wrote, the good , the bad, the ugly, the beautiful and the opposing sides of humanity. I wrote about murder and death and human cruelty ever since I started writing. Gruesome and detailed things to, yet I had to write those things because those things happen. My favorite author Steinbeck, love you,… He writes like this which is why I love him so much. He doesn’t sugar coat, or just portray one side he just shows humanity for what it is. People can be evil. People can do and think evil things.I also write about normal life, just the boredom and monotony of it. That is just as real. As is the drama, on a real scale. I write about things like drugs, sex, alcohol, but not in the sense that oh I want to make a book full of drama about an alcoholic. That seems to me to be focusing on a type of person rather then the fact that , well, a lot of people drink…rather they are a drunk or not.I never had to hold back from what I just flowed out from me in my writing, but I especially when I was younger, never really shared what I wrote. my writing would not tell me that it was inappropriate or bad but people surly would. People don’t for one thing like to hear about people being people. Which makes no sense to me. Look, I am not saying fantasy books are bad. I like a good tale.And I am really sorry to you, Lord of the ring fans for example but I am just not into that. I get that those books can portray a lot of the same messages just going about it a different way but I don’t read to hide and I surely don’t write to hide. I just write because it’s me and that paper facing each-other, and my pen kisses the paper and I breathe and I am free and it is beautiful and I am fully me then, charged and without restraint. That is why I write.
Did any of that make any sense? I can’t express is I just can’t… but I tried and I will try again and again.
Thank you as always for reading and sharing your thoughts with me.
-Wishing you the brightest of days,Eva
” Me and the pen, we are one. If its ink would cease to flow, my ink would cease to flow.”