Purpose of Writing

Many eons ago (meaning late August), I started a little post about why I write.

And then I got busy.

This particular type of busy-ness makes it difficult to write, not because I don’t have some time to write but because I don’t have the space I need to write. My mind needs breathing room, an open area in which to play, time to fiddle and tinker. And, then, I can write.

When I’m stuck in these periods of life, I tend to forget what the purpose of writing is.

Luckily for me, we live in a link-happy web-world, and a Facebook friend posted a link to this wonderful article that touched on the ideas of beauty that helps fuel my writing.

Rather than trying to explain my reasons for writing anew, I’ll let an old story of mine do the talking:

“Listen to me, Celina. All the stories that are told and retold are done so because people desire the things that are in the stories, not the words themselves, but the things the words represent. You must understand that stories, in any case the ones people will listen to over and over again, don’t concern themselves primarily with food or sleep or money or such rather mundane things, except when the mundane touches on the great, the things that begin with capital letters or should: Love. Truth. Justice. Beauty. Honor. Peace. …”

Or from the same story, there’s this passage, about the need and power of story:

But it was not for Fred that the whole of Nephra rejoiced. While he was a fine young man—in some respects, anyway—his presence had merely sparked the tinder of their imaginations. To the citizens of Nephra, who would never leave their land, nor wished to, Fred symbolized the beauty seen in foreign places, the triumph of an unattainable victory, the importance of the word “hero.” He touched them in that same place as exotic glimpses seen late at night, terrible monsters that could not be defeated but must be, the innocence in the eyes of a girl rescued, the glory of one who does not understand how great he is—all these things: the hopes, dreams, and joys of the Nephran people. Though they themselves would never leave and were content with their place in the world, they still envisioned things beyond their vision, wonder beyond their comprehension and joy beyond their understanding.

Or, if I may steal from a different novel I had a hand in writing:

Modern man has lost his imagination. If a modern man sails across the sea, he knows what land he will come to. But as the sailboat departed slowly from the pier, I could not think as a modern man. The stars were bright above the white sails and gentle waves. No, when a ship sails from a dark, celestial shore, he does not land in Europe or China; he ends in a new world, in lands yet undiscovered. […] You can point the sailboat out to me as it sits beside the pier this morning. I will not believe you. I see the ship sailing to the unknown horizon – to Faerie-land, where men have adventures forever. And Jonathan is there, where every story is true. And though I am happy for him – I am irrationally happy – more than anything, I ache. I ache because I want to be there, too.

You are probably sick of my giant blockquotes, but that’s okay. See, my writing has, at the very least, the power to reinvigorate myself. And if it can touch me, maybe it can touch others, and that, you see, is the part of why I write.