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Rated: E · Essay · Writing · #2315420
I reflect on why I write.
I write for one reason, and one reason only — to permanentise my thoughts' place in the world. In my head there's a storm of thoughts, some of which worth preserving, that will be lost forever if I die without writing them down. There's no point in not giving the world my strange perspective while I can. When I write I notice that there exists no writer I've read whose work reads similarly to mine, who structures their writing the same way that I do; I am slightly self-conscious of this fact, as I fear that I do not measure up to said writers, but sometimes, like right now, I ask myself a question whose answer I know very well: would I rather be distinctive and odd, or be a run-of-the-mill writer whose work prospective publishers roll their eyes at before throwing into the trash and moving on to the next nondescript item? I've had experiences — some I wish to share, but most I would rather not — unique to myself; I cannot let these experiences be lost once I am no longer here to tell them. I do not care about being “good” at writing as much as I do about preserving my thoughts, opinions, and experiences.
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