Jungle Gym

The idea for this particular post has been with me for a while, and I haven’t quite been able to put my finger on what I was striving to put forth until now. I want to write about….writing. But more than that, I want to answer this question:

Why do I write?

When I was I elementary school I pictured myself writing stories of endurance and adventure, sweeping epics of women conquering hardships and reaching their goals. I believe that my dreams then were somewhat greatly influenced by my American Girl reading habits. (Forget the dolls, folks. The books are where it’s at.) Then someone came into my life and influenced me in a manner that still resonates to this day: Anne Frank. I don’t even remember when or where I first heard of her, but I became obsessed with her. I read her diary multiple times, I scavenged for biographies about her, I watched a movie depicting her life, and I modeled my diaries and writing style after hers. In her I saw someone that lived her life and felt things strongly, even though she was immersed in a situation that was far more difficult and painful than most of us can imagine. Not only that, but she was able to record her life with such character and energy that you felt like she was with you describing her experiences. I wanted to do exactly that.

As I entered college, I began a tumultuous period of depression. I questioned my relationships and struggled with communicating to my peers. To help ease my mind and to try to explain my struggles, I began to write more seriously. I became invested in the art of it, and I appreciated the process of writing a piece. It eased my mind to immerse myself in developing my thoughts and putting them in order.

In this present time, I am still drawn to the elegant and free flowing process that is writing. My past feelings and experiences with the process have converged into a feeling of identity. I do consider myself to be a writer, although oftentimes I feel as though I am making an audacious statement when I claim such a label. I suppose there is a small part of me that worries someone will appear suddenly and claim sternly, “You’re no writer! You need…. (Proceeds to rattle off long list of writer prerequisites). You shouldn’t be claiming such nonsense!” Having confidence in my work is a challenge that I face often, and this blog is a product of my aspiration to overcome that mental naysayer.

As a writer, it is my desire to tell stories and convey thoughts to an audience. This is where I often meet a wall of frustration, as it feels that my writing is somewhat in vain. I want to speak words that will catch in people’s minds like a favorite song, playing over and over. I hope that I can produce works that are striking and inspiring, an encouragement to those who are in need of a push forward. I will admit that as a writer, I do wish to have people acknowledge my work. Sometimes I feel as though I am speaking into a void and that my pieces simply end up floating about aimlessly in space. They will be read and forgotten, or possibly never read at all. So why then, would I even want to write at all? When I recollect back to my days of dreaming up grand masterpieces full of derring-do, it was the course of building a story that had never been told before that called me to my pencil and paper. Simply being able to create is the greatest reason that I have to continue my writing efforts. There is beauty in the route that curves to and fro, finally depositing you in your imagined destination. Being able to take this journey time and again is the greatest blessing; though the lands of the mind’s eye change dramatically as the trip progresses, there is always a fulfilling peace when you reach the end of your expedition.