The day I started writing was the day I asked myself, ‘why’? Why write? Is this really the medium I’ve
decided to dedicate myself to for the rest of my life? What’s the point, other than maybe an uncanny
ability to write 5,000-word essays in one sitting? And in some strange way, I was correct. Perhaps I
should have devoted myself to something a little bit different instead, something like art, despite how I
never figured out how to draw anything better than a stick figure, or science, or literally anything else.
Crippling doubt is the enemy of any creative, after all; mine just happened to fuel me more than it
weighed me down.
‘Why do we write?’ It’s the question so often asked by those stuck in overheated English classes, forced
to write paragraph after paragraph, drafting thesis after thesis. It’s a question asked by authors who spend
weeks holed up in their offices, typing away on computers, and rushing to fulfill unrealistic deadlines.
And it’s the question mulled over by teenagers who have no idea what to do with themselves and nothing
but knowledge of grammar and a jar full of flashing, rose-colored dreams.
In the past, I always assumed we wrote to feel understood. Or at least, that's the motivation when it occurs naturally. Forced writing is rarely done to be understood, but rather to test a medium and see whether you can bend it to your will. Some can, others can’t. Some go on to pursue that medium for the rest of their lives, while others will never speak of it again. For every child whose passion was sparked by a
forty-minute lesson in elementary school on short stories, there were dozens of students who wanted no
more but to lie against the back of their chairs and sleep. But when given the tools and the desire to create
something able to be read in any voice, understanding is what flows from the tip of the pencil. It’s what I
believed, anyway. Why else would so many famous poets and authors be tortured, locked up in rundown
minds with blood smeared on their words like ink? They pushed themselves to the limit in order to
describe the way they see the world, and we label them as insane as a result of it. I wonder who that says
more about?
However, my theory was soon pushed rather un-theatrically out of a window the day I encountered a
phenomenon known as ‘poetry’. A wonderful creation, really; 10/10s all around, but my young brain was
rather confused about the lack of logic within every line. Why could nobody tell me what it all meant?
Why was everybody fine with merely assuming what was being said? Why did the writer use so many
words and yet say seemingly nothing at the same time? Where did all the rules go?
I’ve now grown to love poetry in all its odd, mildly insane nature, but one cannot make the argument that
it was created with the idea of being understood. People do understand it, yes, and that is always a plus,
but many don’t. And though they will not go through the trouble of reading an expert analysis of what the
words could possibly mean, they’ll still appreciate it. The poem might have even been written for them in
some strange and twisted way. Like art that’s made to look beautiful and nothing else. Or those songs
whose lyrics everybody has collectively decided to ignore.
So writing is not entirely about being understood. That’s what I’d decided after many careful thoughts.
Then maybe it’s about the expression of feelings. After all, haven’t we agreed that, in this new realm of
AI that can perfectly depict the pain of love and loss and war on a digital canvas yet can’t replicate human
hands, emotion is what speaks to us the most? That is all art is; people have decided. Emotion trapped in
the only medium we, as humans, have at our disposal. So perhaps we can slot writing in with the broad
word that is “art” and let emotion represent us writers too.
But again, there are exceptions. Writing is still writing, even when it's void of emotion. Factual essays
detailing only statistics on a certain topic are still being written, even if not to create sentiment. You can
still manipulate words, even if there is no deeper meaning behind them. Who am I to tell you that you
must pour your heart and soul into something in order for it to matter? Maybe you’d like to keep your
heart, or perhaps you have no soul to give. Who am I to judge?
Everybody will argue different things—it’s the point of something as subjective as this question. Fantasy
writers will describe in detail why they write, not to be understood, but to sprinkle their imagination on
paper and watch it bloom. Nonfiction writers will claim writing is for the communication of an idea or
convincing somebody of something they don’t yet agree with. Poets will hold giant dictionaries over their
heads and calmly state that their only goal is not to be understood. Blog writers might claim that writing is a way to demonstrate an opinion, whether people want to hear it or not. But as all nuanced arguments
between overly proud people go, the story spins itself round and round again into an ever-growing loop. A swirling black hole of words, all falling on deaf ears.
Maybe we write to prove something. Like those argumentative essays that feel about as stimulating as
debating with a blank wall. After all, don’t we all hope that somebody will read beneath the layers upon
layers of subtext hidden between the sentences hidden between the lines of everything we’ve ever created
and understand, deep down, that we’ve been screaming senselessly into a void our entire lives? Maybe
somebody will pick a lesson off our pages and slip it up behind their ears, and then someday, in the far
future, they will remember it's there, inspect it at last, and listen to what we have to say. We write not to
be understood, but to communicate and convince.
Except when we don't. Except when a poem conveys a scene instead of an idea, or a paragraph wants to
describe a forest and nothing else. Not when the essay is informative instead of argumentative. Then the
idea falls apart. I’m beginning to understand why nobody writes down their thoughts as they
occur—because they bounce so quickly and nonsensically that everybody else is left turning their heads
from side to side to see where it has gone.
Do you see now? I’m dashing so quickly from one idea to the next, like some type of Olympic sprinter.
I’ll fall and crash into the sand a few times, yes, but I’m still running. Maybe we write to find meaning.
Maybe we write to connect. Maybe we write because speaking was just a little too difficult for somebody,
and their pain fostered an innovation unlike any other. Maybe we write because, high up above us, we’re
merely dolls acting out scenes in a child's play, and they wanted to make us have a bit of fun while our
minds were oh-so-very loud. Or maybe it’s none of these and so much more.
I’m assuming you wanted some sort of answer to the question I posed in the title. But if I answered ‘I
don’t know’ from the very beginning, there’d be no reason for staying. Of course, as I said before, writing
doesn’t need to prove something. Sometimes it can just exist for the sake of existing or disappear for the
sake of disappearing. There’s no true reason why we, as humans, feel the urge to put pen to paper. Or
perhaps there is, and the person who thought it up merely forgot to write it down.
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