About: Why Write?

Isn’t it fascinating how marks on a page- lines and dots and curves- come together to form words that paint pictures, stir emotions, and move us to incredible actions?  The POWER of WORDS… there is nothing quite like it, and to be able to record those words on paper is absolutely liberating.  This blog is dedicated to our RIGHT TO WRITE. No matter what the form- whether it be a letter, a novel, a grocery list, a single word on a sign, or even mere scribbles in a notepad or journal- there is something magical about how those marks move us, sometimes to tears, other times to questions, and when we’re lucky, to inspiration and lessons about ourselves and the life around us.

My obsession with words and writing was not conscious at first. I did not grow up thinking that I wanted to be a writer, nor did I have any sense of how much talent and creativity and went into the books and novels and poems that I was exposed to.

I wasn’t aware how important the act of writing was to me until I was taking an English Literature class at UBC. I was a shy student, even at that age. I hardly spoke in class, but listened a lot. The professor who taught this particular class always grabbed my attention by connecting the words of the writers we were studying with my own life, or at least that’s what it felt like he was doing.

But how did he know that I was going through that? Or that I could connect to this? Or that I could relate to that idea? He probably didn’t. But, he knew a secret that I wasn’t aware of at that time: that writers are people, just like any other people, and they often write for other people, with other people in mind. And though we may not share the same paths or details or experiences in our lives, we share some common truths, some common emotions, some common lessons that help us understand another person, another’s experiences, another’s words.

In reality, professor Lee Johnson knew nothing about my life. But I felt like he did, because he taught universal truths through the words of great writers such as Wordsworth, Keats and Shakespeare and Coleridge. These writers knew how to describe for the reader their experiences, their stories, in a way that would lead us to do nothing else but connect to the words.

And Professor Johnson in turn taught in such a way that he ensured that we, his students, would connect to his teachings. At least I certainly did.

He and the writers made it seem so easy, so effortless to share ideas in this way. And it wasn’t until I became a teacher and also tried writing poetry, I tried expressing my fictional stories in my head on paper, that I realized what a difficult task it was. This gave me such an enormous appreciation for the writers I had been reading throughout my life, and for the teachers who inspired me.

The more Professor Johnson taught me through the words of great writers, the more I learned about myself. And consequently, I started realizing I had an opinion, I had something to say. And maybe I was not comfortable enough yet to say my thoughts out loud, but on paper I could be free to spill my thoughts and insights.

And as Professor Johnson would have little conversations with me on my page- he’d write a comment such as “this is very well put” near a paragraph on one of my essays, or “how perceptive of you” next to another line- the more I felt like I was speaking, on paper. And thus, the more I gained confidence in communicating both on and off the page with others.

It meant so much to me to be able to share my views, and I soon realized that my voice was coming out on the page, a voice that perhaps wanted to be heard for a long time, but didn’t know where to start. But through written words, I was learning about myself and the world around me. It was writing that directed me towards who I really was, and what my purpose and my dreams were. Before this, I was listening to what others wanted for me, what others thought I was like, what others thought was good for me.

Writing showed me where my heart really was, and was guiding me for so long, without me even knowing it at the time.

In fact, it was through writing, and the words of great writers, that I ended up going to Lancaster, England, near the home of Wordsworth. I completed year long study abroad program at the University of Lancaster. And one of the courses I chose was a Woman Writers class.

I still have some of the novels and short stories from that class, because the course and the readings for it had such a huge impact on me, my view of writing, and of history and of myself. I remember reading stories by Margaret Cavendish and some African American writers who were forced to write in secret or under another name because they were women or because they were black.

I remember feeling stifled by even the mere thought of how these women were not allowed to write down their true feelings, or record their life stories, or even learn how to write because of their sex or color of their skin.

This frightened me, because here I was learning more about myself and the world because of written words, and because I was expressing myself in writing in classes. And the women from the past were not given this privilege. The thought of how someone could be denied this simple yet significant experience made me angry. How could it be turned into a privilege for only a select few, when writing, with all its power – to explore, imagine, create and heal- should be a right, for everyone?

And so I started imagining what my life would be like if I could not write, if I was unable to because I wasn’t allowed to learn written language, or because I would be punished for recording my thoughts on paper. The thought made me so grateful for words, for written language, and made me want to use it and take advantage of it as much as I could. When you even imagine that something so precious to you could have been taken away, you hold on to it, tighter and stronger, and fight for it to stay in your life.

And I wanted to fight for, and give voice to, all those women, all those people, who were unable to use this language in the past.

And I still to this day use writing to sort out my thoughts, to take a look at what is really in my head and heart, to be honest with myself, for myself, without worrying about someone else’s reaction or what society or my family or friends want me to do.

Writing was the first place I was able to be myself. And to be yourself, wholly and totally accepted, without judgment or criticism is such a rare but beautiful thing. I turn to my journals, my stories and the magic of words to create music and pictures on paper.

And often, I start to hear those past voices, urging me to tell their stories, to speak for all the years that they were silenced. And to speak for myself, to not take my freedom to write for granted.

And it has become a part of my life, a part of me. Writing. It’s so priceless and powerful. Because it is not just about recording what you DID do, what happened long ago. It is also a way to solve problems, to find solutions, and to make decisions for the future. Writing, especially the process of it, is a teacher. If you let it go where it wants to, if you allow your writer’s mind to lead you, sometimes it can take you to places you didn’t even know you could go, or think of. As Wordsworth said, “Writing can move thought forward.”

A perfect example of this is that when I sat down to write this, I knew roughly what I wanted to say, but did not know how the details would come out, the exact words, or how I would begin and end it. But the more I wrote, the more new ideas came to me, ideas I didn’t already have stored away. The fresh ideas were a result of the process, of just sitting down and putting pen to paper (or fingers to the keyboard). The act of writing creates a flow that can only be released with the action. And the trick is to have faith in this process, to believe in the power of writing to create as it goes. That in itself fascinates me.

Writing has often been my best friend, and is like free therapy – a good listener who doesn’t interrupt but still allows you to sort out your thoughts and come to new conclusions and insights. Growing up quite shy, I was not very social and needed an outlet to express myself. Writing allowed me to talk about things that I didn’t feel comfortable talking about out loud to friends or family at the time. And in talking to my journals about these things, and putting the thoughts on paper, it was as if I had already begun to communicate these ideas to someone. And ironically, I was better able to express myself once the opportunity to talk about them to others arose.

I write because I am scared I might forget things, I might forget details of my life, events and people and experiences that I want to look back on and share with my kids or even with my elderly-self years from now. And if truth be told, I write because I’m scared I will be forgotten. I mean, there were many people who existed during Wordsworth’s and Shakespeare’s times. How come we don’t know about most of them after they died?

Writing provides a kind of record of our existence. It is a way to be heard, to be acknowledged, to be remembered. It is proof of our existence, a way to say, with much more words, “I was here.” Maybe in a kind of egocentric way, I would like it to be known that I was here.

Through writing, I feel like we can pretend to be immortal. Our words live on long after we do. We can outlive ourselves through our writing. Writers’ messages and teachings can still be heard long after the writers die.

Afterall, many of the writers who often inspire me lived way before my time. Yet still, they affect my decisions, my views and my life. They change my life long after they are gone. It is understandable, I think, to want to dream of doing the same.

“Writing is magic, as much the water of life as any other creative art. The water is free. So drink. Drink and be filled up.”- Stephen King.