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Rated: E · Essay · Arts · #949390
Contest entry for 'what writing does for me.'
Writing is my way of processing and defining the world around me. It allows me to react, reflect and respond. Sometimes I place an event or idea under my writer’s microscope to see its fine details, its inner workings or the beauty of the moment. It allows me to see the flayed edges of an argument or the co-existing cells of the old couple walking hand in hand. At other times, the thoughts or visions need the distance of using my writer’s telescope. This allows me to bring close that distant event or conflict, that explosion in deep space or salty tear meeting desert floor. My writer’s mirror lets me see the world refracted or reflected—at times reveling in the many distortions produced or able to visualize abject reality. Writing is the ATM of my mind where I can deposit or withdraw at will.

I am a story-teller. Stories have been told since the dawn of the first communicated thought. The first time a cave dweller came home with meat for his mate and communicated by means of grunts and gestures the bravery of his hunt, storytelling was born. Stories became histories and tales became lessons and words became songs. Being a writer is a noble endeavor to impart to the masses (or microcosm) that thought, idea or tale which, in turn, shall educate, define, entertain or illuminate.

Writing takes me beyond my four walls and brings the world inside them. Writing takes me to entire new worlds where purple skies meet yellowed horizons and I can walk their water paths and swim through rocky passes. Through writing I can express my inner most dreams and desires as well as rail at the fates condemning them to nothing more than a crumpled piece of paper in the trash or worse, shredded into confetti and put to a more celebratory use.

I find joy in writing. When the world around me becomes an unfriendly place, when evictions loom or relationships sputter out, when I literally do not have two pennies to rub together, I can still write and the worlds surrounding me become less threatening even if only for the moment. If I hunger or thirst and have not the means to satisfy these needs, but I can yet write, then the wolf is kept at bay for a while longer. Writing lets me keep the fires of my mind burning, providing mental warmth and light that become a safe haven. Writing lets me put all in perspective, balancing the desperate and the delicious as I dance the daily tightrope between yesterday and tomorrow. It is my how, and where and why. It is my answer and my question.

Writing is my passion, my glory, my procrastination device and my excuse to not do the dishes. It is what keeps my fingers flying over the keys until the wee hours become daylight, or wakens me energized in the middle of the night. I can think of no worse fate than to be denied the ability to write. For writing defines me as well as defining my world. It is who I am, it is what I do and it is the very air I breathe.

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