The simple answer is that I write because I have to. I have too many thoughts in my head, so I have to frequently siphon them off by writing. If I didn’t, my head would fill to the bursting point, and probably explode.
I write because I have this compulsion to remember everything. My memory has lots of holes, so if I don’t write something down, I forget it.
I write because there are so many stories inside of me: characters and worlds and great adventures I want to explore.
When I was about six or seven years old, I was obsessed with space. I wanted to be an astronaut and travel out of the Earth’s atmosphere to go to the Moon, to Mars, to Jupiter, or beyond. I wanted to go “out there,” where no one else had been. Because it would mean seeing wonders untold.
But for a boy born with brittle bones, the reality of traveling on a rocket would mean being crushed by G-forces my body couldn’t bear. Becoming an astronaut would never be in the cards for me.
I could never go to space. I would never see a Martian sunset or watch as Jupiter filled the sky from Titan. I would never travel to the stars.
I’ve thought a lot about this: why we write. Lord knows, there are easier ways to spend your day.
One of the dirty truths about writing is that it’s a hell of a lot of work. No matter what offerings I make (and there have been many), the words refuse to write themselves. They are selfish and lazy little bastards.
To be entirely honest, there are plenty of times I want to walk away and do almost anything other than write, but for some reason, I don’t. And a lot of my writer friends don’t either. Time after time, we find ourselves drawn back to the desk or the laptop or the pen and paper so we can hash out the things that are banging around inside our head.
Now you might be saying to yourself, “Wow, Larry. That sounds like a stubborn group of people who really have a thing for emotional agony.” I wouldn’t disagree with you. But I also admit that I proudly count myself among their numbers, and I think the answer to why we keep at this writing thing goes deeper than our being a collection of people whose particular kink is self-induced frustration.
During elementary school, I drew comic books in class. My first character was Outback Jack, a whip-toting bad-ass inspired by Crocodile Dundee and Indiana Jones. By the time I reached high school, I spent a lot of time writing and drawing comics. I came up with the brand name Power Comics when I was in sixth grade, and made business cards on printer paper. I even had a logo.
With the exception of Outback Jack and a couple of other characters, I didn’t have interest in continuing their adventures. I loved coming up with characters and writing their origin stories. I’ve always loved a good comic book origin story, even to this day. All told, I invented around fifty title characters. Many of them shared powers with published super heroes, but that has never stopped DC or Marvel from ripping each other off.
Looking, back, that is how I began writing. I felt a rush and kept seeking it. I used to think I started writing in college. I wrote a scene for video production my sophomore year and attended a screenwriter’s boot camp as a junior. But when I really look at my life, writing has always been there. (more…)
Some do it for pleasure. Others do it to make a living. I’ve heard tell that some do it alone, in the dark. There are those who are tortured by it, but do it anyway. The “it” we’re referring to, of course, is writing.
Why do we write? Are we sharks? Are we storytellers? Are we desperate to be remembered? Maybe there’s some primal instinct at work. Or maybe the answer is simply “because.” We asked our writers why, and — not surprisingly — we received a lot of different responses. (I swear, I’ll buy everyone a round if we actually all agree on something.)
So come on in from the summer heat. Pull up a stool beneath the ceiling fan. Have an ice-cold drink. Sit back and talk with our writers. We hope you enjoy the discussion.
Until next week,
The Cafe Management