Writing Is A Weird Thing

I write to understand as much as to be understood. – Elie Wiesel

I just write what I wanted to write. I write what amuses me. It’s totally for myself. – J.K. Rowling

I write for myself things that I’ve gone through. – Dolly Parton

People want to know why I do this, why I write such gross stuff. I like to tell them I have the heart of a small boy… and I keep it in a jar on my desk. – Stephen King

Writing is a weird thing.

Think about it. Thoughts are in your head and then words come out of your fingertips, are pecked relentlessly onto a keyboard, attached to a computer and then sent out for other people to read with their eyes. So many body parts working together create a result. Such an impact on the world.

Writing isn’t talking.

I don’t even have to open my mouth for you to know exactly what I think.

Writing is cowardly.

People shield with the a keyboard and stab with the pen. They don’t say what they really feel out loud, in person.

Writing isn’t easy.

When the words you’re thinking don’t actually become words on the piece of paper, when they don ‘t exist outside of your brain and there is no way to articulate exactly what it is you want to say; that’s the worst thing about writing.

Writing is a love affair.

It commands your late night attention. Numerous nights are spent in bed, low lighting, under the sheets with the secret pen and paper stash you keep ready in your nightstand. The perfect line, character, or simple sentence can come anytime and anywhere. You could be listening to your mother yammer on inconstantly about her work friend’s eating habits, walking down the street to the nearest coffee shop, or dead asleep in your bed. But the interruption doesn’t matter, because you want it.

Writing is mean.

Sometimes people don’t like you. You say something that they find offensive. They don’t get your joke or even better- they don’t read what you wrote at all.

Writing is brave.

A little piece of your soul pours out on everything you write. It’s messy. It is an extension of you. Your insides look like the words they’re reading on that page, your own name accredited to the mass of syntax, diction, and heart on display.