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I was tagged by Tony Noland in his meme and not wanting to disappoint, here's my answer - what writing means to me.
Writing is escapism. When you're a kid, you feel like you can do or be anything. That's not your back yard - it's the battleground for the final showdown between your band of rebels and the evil intergalactic alliance. You wait every day by the letterbox, hoping today will be the day your letter from Hogwarts arrives. You play with your mother's rings, hoping to find the one that will transport you to another dimension. And then...you grow up.
Real life and all its mundane (and often painful) concerns rear their ugly heads, and soon you're battling a hydra of gargantuan proportions. Lop the head off one worry and two more will spring up in its place. If you're a writer, though, you don't have to grow up - and battling that Hydra becomes easier because you have the imagination to fight it. Your horrible boss, whose attempts at motivating the work force succeed only in pushing people over the edge, becomes a hideous demon, and only you can defeat him (or her) by leaving Post-It notes covered with anonymous doodles all over the office. You only have £10 for food and can't decide what to buy so you spend your time dawdling in the fresh produce aisle, inventing weird and wonderful new fruits and vegetables from your very own country. Your soul destroying commute becomes the mad dash through the minotaur's labyrinth.
Sure, it's all just make believe, and none of it's real, but you know what? It doesn't matter. When I write, I can make things up to my heart's content, rewriting the laws of the universe to suit my own perverse imaginings. I don't have to worry about whether or not I paid my credit card bill, or worry about how my day at work is going to go, if I'm knee deep in a story about a dashing Cavalier, or exploring the streets of Vertigo City with Commander Liss Hunt. For a short time, I'm absent from the world and its concerns.
Writing is escapism, and escapism is good for the soul.
I'm going to tag;
Stina Vincent
Carrie Clevenger
Rob Diaz
Jen Brubacher
Showing posts with label why i write. Show all posts
Showing posts with label why i write. Show all posts
Thursday, 9 June 2011
Wednesday, 2 March 2011
Why I Write
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I keep meaning to write some kind of blog post on why I write. I normally trot out the same old schlock about how I've always written, and it's never really occurred to me not to. Stories pop into my head and I write them down. As the meerkat would say, "Simples."
However, while that is still true, I think it does go deeper than that. After all, I've always been able to run but it doesn't mean I do (I don't, as it happens. I prefer swimming and Pilates as forms of exercise. Running looks so...ungainly) Yesterday I posted the link to my story, The Sought After Smile, which had been published in the new issue of Luna Station Quarterly. The link was shared on Facebook (seriously, what did we do before social networking?) and someone posted a comment to say it had really cheered them up after a crap day. You know what I did? I smiled (and I am not an inherently cheerful person).
Do you know how ace that feels, to know that something you wrote actually helped to improve someone else's day? That a simple work of fiction could cheer someone up in just a few moments? Ah, escapism. You can't beat it. I suppose I whiled away many a lonely hour as a child, caught up in an Enid Blyton adventure or whizzing through another Roald Dahl, and if I'm completely honest, I still seek solace in books now. To my mind, if I can provide someone with a few moments away from the troubles and stresses of their existence, then that is a job well done.
Yes, it's true. I have no lofty pretensions to creating high art, to leaving a literary legacy that will see schoolchildren pore over my work 200 years from now, to winning awards or changing the world - no, I just want to entertain people. I like to think I'm more Guillermo del Toro than Michael Bay, but the intention is much the same.
Of course, that's not the ONLY reason I write. At the moment, I'm working on a Western novella, tentatively titled Guns of Retribution, about a bounty hunter named Gray O'Donnell. I've written the first draft, and I'm now polishing the rough edges before I send it to my completely awesome beta readers. I'm a natural pedant so if a plot point sticks out like a sore thumb to me, I assume it'll be a red flag to others, so I won't put anything out in front of people until all the narrative logic has been resolved. Now, for one reason and another, I've had to take a couple of breaks from redrafting, and I finally got back into it on Monday night. Re-reading the opening scene, I almost cried - it was like being back among old friends again. Sure, they're imaginary friends, but they're friends all the same.
Writing is an inherently solitary path, but in a perverse kind of way, we're never really alone. We're constantly living out adventures in our heads, chatting to people we've invented, and endlessly creating new places and things. Of course, if most people say they hear voices, they're considered insane, but writers are exempt from this particular social convention.
Good thing, too. I wouldn't dare tell Liss Hunt to shut up.
However, while that is still true, I think it does go deeper than that. After all, I've always been able to run but it doesn't mean I do (I don't, as it happens. I prefer swimming and Pilates as forms of exercise. Running looks so...ungainly) Yesterday I posted the link to my story, The Sought After Smile, which had been published in the new issue of Luna Station Quarterly. The link was shared on Facebook (seriously, what did we do before social networking?) and someone posted a comment to say it had really cheered them up after a crap day. You know what I did? I smiled (and I am not an inherently cheerful person).
Do you know how ace that feels, to know that something you wrote actually helped to improve someone else's day? That a simple work of fiction could cheer someone up in just a few moments? Ah, escapism. You can't beat it. I suppose I whiled away many a lonely hour as a child, caught up in an Enid Blyton adventure or whizzing through another Roald Dahl, and if I'm completely honest, I still seek solace in books now. To my mind, if I can provide someone with a few moments away from the troubles and stresses of their existence, then that is a job well done.
Yes, it's true. I have no lofty pretensions to creating high art, to leaving a literary legacy that will see schoolchildren pore over my work 200 years from now, to winning awards or changing the world - no, I just want to entertain people. I like to think I'm more Guillermo del Toro than Michael Bay, but the intention is much the same.
Of course, that's not the ONLY reason I write. At the moment, I'm working on a Western novella, tentatively titled Guns of Retribution, about a bounty hunter named Gray O'Donnell. I've written the first draft, and I'm now polishing the rough edges before I send it to my completely awesome beta readers. I'm a natural pedant so if a plot point sticks out like a sore thumb to me, I assume it'll be a red flag to others, so I won't put anything out in front of people until all the narrative logic has been resolved. Now, for one reason and another, I've had to take a couple of breaks from redrafting, and I finally got back into it on Monday night. Re-reading the opening scene, I almost cried - it was like being back among old friends again. Sure, they're imaginary friends, but they're friends all the same.
Writing is an inherently solitary path, but in a perverse kind of way, we're never really alone. We're constantly living out adventures in our heads, chatting to people we've invented, and endlessly creating new places and things. Of course, if most people say they hear voices, they're considered insane, but writers are exempt from this particular social convention.
Good thing, too. I wouldn't dare tell Liss Hunt to shut up.
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