Why Write?

^{Blue Memories – Josue Aparicio Castillo}

Bryce Augusti

You have only yourself to blame—I wasn’t the one who began reading this with hopes I might be motivated—that I might know why I write, who I write for, or why this horrific gift has cursed me in the peculiar way it has.  

But, now that I mention it, that is the sole reason I compose this particular piece. I write these words in hopes that, given a time in the future in which I am unmotivated, in which I struggle to formulate a coherent thought, I will have an iron dogma, an unwavering belief in the notions of my past self—the self currently writing this sentence. 

To please all of you(and myself), I will attempt to appease our collective minds by answering this question. Although I find it funny that people need to ask for motivation, seeking something from an external party that, if completely honest with yourself, can only be found internally, “why” seems to be a pressing question nowadays. 

I will use myself as a key example, and from there, hopefully, you will learn what motivates you; because, as I have come to understand, this unique question has distinct answers and solutions for each individual. 

So, here is your magical answer to the issue of lethargy, your cure to sloth, your quick-fix drug in lyrical prose: 

I don’t know—these things(motivation, writing, and whatnot), as any parent or condescending advice-giver might say, you must figure out for yourself. These things, the things of the written word, are the types of things you must think about for a lengthy time, using every ounce of your rationality, because they do not come lightly. Actually, they come quite heavily, with a heavier burden on your time, and your soul, your emotions, than any reprieve it might offer you. 

You don’t decide it, writing, that’s for sure. And you sure as hell don’t choose it. 

The best example I can provide to prove this point is a small thought I composed at a smoothie cafe in Italy, a moment in which my yearning to write was unbearably strong:

“Well, it seems evident my fingers are potent again—they smell, and I sniff them irreconcilably, hoping to waft any remnants of brilliance they may hold. My face is bent over them, gleaning their grease and seeking their stress; desperately, I desire to understand their movement. You see, the fingers move separately from the brain; only the nose controls them. And to this phenomenon, I say thank you—for this gift, the gift of smell, is the very thing that made me a writer.”

By “gift of smell,” I think, if I can provide insight into my past self, the former me was alluding to that supernatural thing, the itchy part of my mind that is incomprehensible to most people; I was speaking of that writing feeling, the absence of space and time that occurs in a state of pondering, the flow state. I don’t understand it—the machine that churns out words and thoughts, somehow making them legible enough to read.

All writers I know—good ones and bad ones, know the feeling I speak of. 

If I can allude to this a bit more, I venture to say that my perspective on what it takes to be a writer differs greatly from the average person’s. 

To write, I don’t think you need to be educated, or white, or rich, or spoiled. You do not need to follow any creed, believe in any god, or bow to any master. And, to a greater effect, I don’t think you need to be undervalued, underserved, oppressed, diverse, or have undergone some unbearable trial or challenge. It’s true—struggles make for good stories, but often, those who bear the struggles are unable to express the true depth of their pain. 

But, I’d wager to say someone with a good imagination, someone who can falsify an intense amount of emotion within themselves, or, interestingly enough, someone who has unrequited and unexplored feelings, will make just as good a story(given that it is not in the realm of biography) than the person that lived the plot. 

If you boil it down, that’s all writing is—complete and utter openness, the words of a person unafraid to discover the true nature of humans and their creations. Anyone can be a writer, just as anyone can cry, love, smile, burp, laugh, and vomit. 

Writing is the great equalizer of mankind. I would just as easily read a comic book or some ramblings from an uneducated child as I would the greatest novel ever written, no matter how persuasive the prose was or what wonderful theme was portrayed through simile or onomatopoeia or metaphor or personification—whatever those terms mean. 

I realize that a few of you might be confused about the validity of the previous statement. But, as I have previously stated, or tried to, when it comes to literature, everyone indulges themselves in different ways. We all drink from the same source, yet taste a distinct liquid and absorb different nutrients.

 Some might think that children’s incessant ramblings, picture books, or scribbles on bathroom walls are not writing but little compositions, deeming them meaningless. I see this perspective but wholeheartedly disagree with its intrinsically unmotivated origin—the idea that literature, words, and creativity are fixed and restricted. 

On the other hand, I attempt to saturate myself with every word I read. Through this practice, I will be healthier than someone who only wants to drink from the largest ocean, comprised of novels,  and refuses to acknowledge the beauty of smaller phrases. 

After all, think of a street sign, post-it note, or any other small “composition.” What makes them different from what we usually deem as “writing”? Do they not tell a story, elicit an emotion, or cause anxiety? 

Does a directional sign, something you read on the highway, not give you purpose, educate, or aid you? The distinction between these notes and the most extraordinary novel ever written is nothing more than word count and a few extra intricacies that some might seek to enjoy from a lengthy, well-composed work. 

I recognize that this is an oversimplification, but an important one to take to heart when understanding that writing is all around us, ingrained into the very fabric of our human lives. 

So, there is your motivation. 

Write because you cannot escape it; it is inherently inescapable, which is quite maddening. Write because you have something inside you that cannot be expressed in any other way—and because you are willing to express it. Write because you understand that you can write and that if you do, you will immediately bear the title of author. Whether you attempt to or not, you will contribute to the greatest work ever written—the great American novel—of verse and prose and notes and lines that make up human life and its beauty. 

Write because if you stop, you fail yourself and all mankind. Write because you carry the knowledge of all humans that have ever existed, that have ever toiled under the hot sun, in the fields, over the desk, and through the violence of manly encounter. 

Write because, if you do, you will become cemented in history as someone who lived—not someone who merely existed, but someone who took the chance to live.

To conclude, here is a quote from one of my works, The Hewer: 

“I thought, as a dumb, no-good kid, that when you grow up, the songs that used to be sung to you die out. For all these sappy bastards that had singing moms, the ones that cradled you up all nice and warm and sang you a lullaby or something, well, actually, I have to tell you, they never fully die. The songs that people sing, or did sing, to you become little songs you whisper to yourself—little mantras you use to tell yourself that everything is okay. The songs become little lies, and as you get older, the lies get louder and grow bigger. And, eventually, you belt out something you can’t recognize just to make sound like you used to. I still sing to myself every day like that. I don’t think I will ever stop.” 

So, if you need something to hold on to—something to motivate, hear my plea. 

“Rage against the dying of the light” – Dylan Thomas

You will die, and then you will stop. So while you live, while you write, never stop. It’s that simple. 

Even when you feel as though you make no sense–keep writing; whether your work is getting you nowhere, or you feel you have no time, or you have nothing to write about, or you have nothing worth writing about, or no one to read your writing; or no one that likes your writing, or someone who hates your writing, or someone who tells you that you aren’t educated enough, or something inside you that says your tired, or stuck, or dull, or dead. 

Write because I am no one, telling another no one about our collective identity as a significant someone, and yet I am everyone, and you are everyone. And, after I write this word, this character, this line, I am fulfilling the promise of all the nobodies that ever existed and the possible someone that could exist. 

So, why write?