Lately, I’ve been thinking long and hard about why I write fiction. This isn’t the first time I’ve wondered why it’s not only fun, but necessary for me to create a world other than the one I’m living in. The more depressing and most obvious reason is that I am seeking an escape from my own life, a way to alter reality if only through the lens of an imaginary character who is (obviously) not me. But the more candid and telling reason is that it’s a passion and drive I feel in my bones. So many people struggle to write creatively, but I don’t know how not to do it because I’m programmed that way. When I allow myself to put a pen to paper, or my fingers to the laptop keys, I’m often stunned and bewildered by the things that come out of me. And that might sound egotistical and vain, but I swear I don’t mean it that way. I’m just trying to say that writing helps me understand myself. Sometimes, I don’t even know what I’m thinking until I find myself writing the thoughts & feelings into existence. It’s odd, feeling like both a dear friend & a total stranger to my very own core.
I’ve always enjoyed a challenge, but I tend to not have as much confidence in myself as I probably should, so needless to say, I was more than proud when I completed NaNoWriMo on Monday. Writing 50,000 words in (less than) 30 days might sound easy, but it has always been a struggle for me. Sure, if I were wired differently, I suppose I could sit in front of the computer or a notebook and write blindly for hours on end, without looking back. But I don’t work that way. Through the entire month-long process, I revisited my novel constantly, editing and rewriting bits and pieces as I went along, which made it all the more difficult to reach a concrete and satisfying ending. Yet somehow, I managed to get there. I’m not 100% happy with it, but I finished it and it’s mine and that’s all that matters (for now, at least).
I didn’t have much direction to begin with regarding this particular blog post, so I guess I’ll wrap it up here. I just wanted to express how grateful I am for the gift of writing, which was bestowed upon me in a way I certainly don’t understand but will never stop loving. I’m endlessly thankful for this outlet through which I can express myself and try to make sense of the world, even when it all feels so impossible.
Oh, and I’m seeing Ryan Adams for the first time ever in two days. So let’s just end with that.