Why I Write
I wrote this piece on April 26th, 2015.
I wasn’t ready to write every day. I don’t know how I was so lost around that time, but I was. It’s hard to reflect on why I did or did not do something. Though, I was reading Why I Write by Eric Arthur Blair a.k.a. George Orwell and it gave me insight how I turned into someone who writes every day.
I find too many similarities between artists and entrepreneurs. I think the mental process of creation is too similar. Orwell discusses the 4 motives for someone to write:
(i) Sheer egoism. Desire to seem clever, to be talked about, to be remembered after death, to get your own back on the grown-ups who snubbed you in childhood, etc., etc. It is humbug to pretend this is not a motive, and a strong one. Writers share this characteristic with scientists, artists, politicians, lawyers, soldiers, successful businessmen — in short, with the whole top crust of humanity. The great mass of human beings are not acutely selfish. After the age of about thirty they almost abandon the sense of being individuals at all — and live chiefly for others, or are simply smothered under drudgery. But there is also the minority of gifted, willful people who are determined to live their own lives to the end, and writers belong in this class. Serious writers, I should say, are on the whole more vain and self-centered than journalists, though less interested in money.
(ii) Aesthetic enthusiasm. Perception of beauty in the external world, or, on the other hand, in words and their right arrangement. Pleasure in the impact of one sound on another, in the firmness of good prose or the rhythm of a good story. Desire to share an experience which one feels is valuable and ought not to be missed. The aesthetic motive is very feeble in a lot of writers, but even a pamphleteer or writer of textbooks will have pet words and phrases which appeal to him for non-utilitarian reasons; or he may feel strongly about typography, width of margins, etc. Above the level of a railway guide, no book is quite free from aesthetic considerations.
(iii) Historical impulse. Desire to see things as they are, to find out true facts and store them up for the use of posterity.
(iv) Political purpose. — Using the word ‘political’ in the widest possible sense. Desire to push the world in a certain direction, to alter other peoples’ idea of the kind of society that they should strive after. Once again, no book is genuinely free from political bias. The opinion that art should have nothing to do with politics is itself a political attitude.
People are like flowers and we bloom at different times, but what climate we set roots affects our entire growth. In this essay, Orwell admits he denied himself as a writer for a long time. The internal reflections I wrestled here over these past few months definitely are a cause for my strength.
I am grateful for the discipline I wield today, and I give credit to these motives. By doing what I love — writing, biking, reading, and dreaming, I am more satisfied with myself.
Besides the motives, some other techniques was downloading Evernote and not having an interent connection and also spending more time doing simple exercises everyday.
Can you see the change?
I HAVE A WEIRD FEAR OF WRITING.
Like a stage of intellectual phimosis, the pleasure of written expression is wanted but painful to conceive. Writing is a non-existent pressure on me to feel obligated to share my meanings and experiences. Writing is the only relief for my imagination. My imagination started a war with my reflections and personal identity. It refuses to back down till total annihilation of insecurity, hesitation, and idle, false conceits are subsumed by titillating curiosity and obsessions. My brain is the sun of my universe; I feel everything that pulls away from my orbit. Instead of balancing my planets and pursuing further expansion of my umwelt, I feel an intense urge to shrink. Hold. Possess. I fear writing exposes my vast emptiness.
My ideas are as airy as a faery — gay, ridiculous, cute and short-ended. I am constantly pregnant with passion and inventive notions but most come out cold and dead. Flesh turns to stone. Creators are truly special. We live in an intellectual infertile world; our species relies on our reproduction of ageisms, innovations, delusions, hallucinations, and combination of what is listed.
People have hated me since birth. I have been spit and spilled on. Why should I hold fears of being wrong or overly confident or holding a strong opinion? Can I talk of my world without sounding like an absolutist, stuck in their own echo chamber? I dislike telling people what to do. I don’t want to hear what people want me to do. Persuasion is sexier than delegation.
I miss the night. Now all I do is sleep.
I miss my misery. It forced me to find confidence.
I miss too many people even ones I never have met. I dream of them constantly.
My mental river is on the verge of being dried, and becoming an age of the Regime of Stones — silent, deadly wisdom that paralyzes the flesh, the liquid, my only sense of motion. I can’t be someone that cages their electricity.
I just wish something would quiet my brain. I can tell my thoughts are fat. I have let them indulge in sweet nothings, savory memories on constant re-run, spicy fantasies, and very very salty distractions that leave me sleepy. Right now I am up at 1:32 a.m. writing. This is like joining a yoga class because of your New Year’s Resolutions. I make excuses. I say I need sadness to find insight. I romanticize struggle and tragedy as the only sources for comprehending heroisms.
I can dive into cold water, but I won’t stay in it and tread. I am sick of my comfort. I think I am ready to be terrified. I think I am ready to be frozen and out of breath, searching for warmth — my fire. I am ready to write every day.
