I initially misread one of the questions I answered for the last blog. I thought it asked, "Why do you write?" I've been asked this before, and have never been sure how to answer this until now.
I'll answer with my own question. Why do you breathe?
Why do I write? Because I have to. Because I don't know how not to. I mean, you [I] can stop breathing [writing] for a while, but eventually something you can't control kicks in and you do it again. If an external force is stopping you from breathing, you start fighting. Your very life demands it. My physical life doesn't demand that I write but there's a real, vital part of me that does.
I've read almost as far back as I can remember; I've written most of that time as well. I vividly recall the first time Mom taught me to form letters. I was already captivated by the alphabet, words, punctuation, sentences, paragraphs, stories, books, magazines, you name it... but the idea that I could write? That I could make those same things? How could it be true? Oh, the bliss!
I wrote my first letters and thank you cards before grade school. I wrote well over a thousand "lines" my first month of school. Some of these were for getting creative with writing lines. That was NOT ALLOWED. But it was in my bones.
I wrote the first poem I was seriously proud of in second grade. It was about pygmies. I still had it a few years ago, but I have no idea where it is now (sad face). It contained four quatrains, each about a different aspect of being a pygmy. One was about weaponry, another about wearing very little (with mud between their toes and leaves brushing their skin). I forget the rest...
I wrote research papers. I liked some of them, though I probably bogged down more on these than anything else.
I wrote page length and longer notes to friends at school. In fourth grade I wrote up the rules for U.N.C.L.E., the spy group for boys. It was then I wrote the first love notes I can remember. In fifth grade I had stacks of 3x5 index cards covered in notes about the people all around me, a result of reading Harriet the Spy (still a favorite). I wrote my own comics.
In sixth or seventh grade, Claude Thompson and I decided to write a book together. He wrote a clone of parts of his favorite James Bond book. I wrote a collection of pithy sayings and one liners, very little of which was original. That one thankfully died a quick death.
In ninth or tenth grade, Dan Croft and I started "legal proceedings" against each other, having decided to be lawyers. For a couple of months, every school day we presented each other with a lawsuit, response to allegations, cease and desist, or whatever other other legal document we had cooked up. We worked hard on legalese and studied all the law we could find. Some of these documents ran eight to ten pages. Our parents were a bit worried.
In either eleventh or twelfth grade a teaching assistant- Miss Ball- really encouraged my writing even though some of it perturbed her (and well it should have). In twelfth grade, Mrs. Marion Unger, English teacher extraordinaire, creative writing teacher flying under the school radar, a Jewish saint, a brilliant, fun, open minded teacher, pretty much blew the doors off whatever was holding me back. She encouraged me not only to write, but to dream, to think the way I wanted and needed to, to find my voice and style rather than parrot what others said. She knocked some serious barriers down for me and gave me permission to destroy the rest.
For at least two quarters in college I spent an hour or two every night writing on the 3rd Street tunnel walls under I-75/85. I found some awesome friends doing the same thing. One turned out to be my roommate (we were all quite secretive at first.) Professor Frisbee at Georgia Tech was also a huge encouragement. We lost a great English teacher when he left to attend seminary.
For years I wrote off and on. I snuck stories into comments and even code as a software developer. I wrote text-based games. I was writing at least an hour a day for years on the net long before most people heard of it, when it was pretty much all text based. I was working long hours and writing was my sanity. For a few months I wrote something every day focused on exploring everything I could do within a random rule of writing. I spent the next few months writing something every day that explored breaking a random rule of writing. This was one of the best things I could have done.
I touched on the rest in the previous blog. But suffice it to say, not writing feels like it sucks the life out of me. I still like to write long emails and messages. I still like to write letters. I wrote dozens of kids' stories for my kids, for Tiffany Hall when she was battling cancer, for my grandkids. I blog. I facebook. I take notes. I write postcards. I come up with stories about anything and everything at the drop of a hat, a pin, or a bomb.
Why do I write?
Why do you breathe?
Can't stop. Won't stop.
Pausing is OK. I'll pause here. But not for long.
