Recently a good friend of mine decided to take a more creative direction with his life. Fed up with the cubicle routine and feeling genuinely unfulfilled, he started writing on the side with the end goal being an eventual transition into full time writing. We talked about the change in direction over several nights, batting around ideas, encouraging each other in our new pursuits and reconnecting. At one point I asked him why he wanted to pursue this passion so fervently? I challenged him to put his thoughts on paper not only solidifying his rationale but possibly stirring up some subconscious reasons. The moment I said this it dawned on me that I had never done this simple exercise. There were reasons, passions and emotions floating around my head as to why I wanted to dive back into writing, but I never committed any of them to hardcopy, instead letting them drift through my mind in a constant state of flux.
Why someone pursues something is an important component of their success. Without a strong desire, belief or goal, the endeavor is sure to fail. I’ve always been a writer, picking it up and tossing it aside over the years, never fully immersing myself. There have been a lot of other pursuits I’ve maintained over the years such as computer games (I love the old adventure ones), movies (I’m trying to become an offline IMdB) and even cartoons (anime, Looney Tunes, ALL OF THEM). Each of these outlets is fulfilling, relaxing and thoroughly enjoyable. What was it about putting pen to paper that I kept coming back to? The answer didn’t springing forth, so I decided to start from the beginning.
Letters and words have constantly filled my life. From very early on I was reading and writing, having a natural knack for it. It was never an alien tongue to be deciphered and beaten into understanding, but a fantastic adventure where I played with my friends, letters and words, as they revealed their meanings to me. In elementary school I was the proverbial bookworm reading Gulliver’s Travels and Dracula instead of playing outside. When the leather bound tomes were finished I created my own worlds, scribbling furiously onto paper the oddities running through my thoughts. Moving from house to house, school to school and even between countries, the only companions that followed me through the entire odyssey were words. They were readily within reach, wrapping their arms around me in a warm embrace and taking me to places more vibrant than anywhere I had been shuttled off to.
I love stories in all their myriad forms. Spoken, written, visual, each and every method allowing you to absorb something that is human in essence. Gorillas don’t hand down tales of their ancestors to their children, trees don’t whisper of memories long since passed and ants don’t entertain each other with whimsical stories to alleviate the monotony of their existence. Humans are alone in the wonderful ability to not only share portions of their history but also create new narratives from pure imagination. Something deep inside me resonates with this uniquely human gift, eagerly devouring it as quickly as its given to me. Once ingested, I’m nourished by the spark of creation it contains. To create something, a thing that could only exist because you brought it to life, is an indescribable sensation. Welling up from the heart and mind simultaneously, your very being sings with the spark as it courses through your body and out into the world. If there’s anything on this Earth that I am addicted to, it’s that feeling.
Writing has always scared me, yet there are few things in this life that I’ve wanted with this much passion. The intensity of that allure is like a flame in the dark, drawing you close with its illusion of safety and then burning you with that false promise. When in throes of writing I’m frightened I’ll never taste that feeling again, each act of creation my very last. When venturing into the real world I had two distinct paths ahead of me, writing or computers and I chose the latter. I did this because the love I have for writing is so deep that the possibility of failure is soul crushing and in order to never experience that, I avoided it all together. In retrospect my choice was incredibly foolish and life has shown me how wrong the decision was, but the fear at the time was paralyzing. No matter how much I fight it, writing beckons to me, an integral part of who I am in this world that has been sadly neglected. It still frightens me for the same reasons, but the fear also has a savory quality to it like roller coasters and leather whips. The butterflies in my stomach when I chase this desire are far more preferable to the acid in my veins when I try to repress it.
With these pieces combined I finally answer why I can’t escape the bonds of writing any more than my own skin; Words are my infallible friends, I’m hooked on the sensation of creating and writing brings me delicious terror.
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Holy mackerel.
It’s as if I could have written this about myself. Wow. Terrific post. Absolutely terrific.
Talk about resonating…