by Chris Pickens
Why write? Good question. Perhaps the question, at least for those of us who experience the strange desire to write.
The obvious answer is to negate the question: a true writer cannot not write. I’ve heard this before, from people vastly more experienced and intelligent than myself. I will admit there is some truth to this. Most of us experience the desire to write as something akin to a divinely inspired call, something we ignore at our own peril. Perhaps like the shepherd Hesiod being made a poet by the Muses. Although not quite as romantic as that and without the sheep.
Some of us though—working, blocked, terrified, fearless, brilliant, derivative, beginning, would-be, wannabe writers—still ask ourselves this question. At least, I know I do (in fact, pretty much every time I begin the rather quixotic attempt to fill a blank page with words).
There is certainly little money in it, even for those most talented and hardworking among us. What about fame? Honor? Health? The well-regard of our family and friends? Hell, what about happiness? Speaking only of percentages, though, the writer hoping for these goods will likely be disappointed, at least insofar as he or she expects writing to contribute to their acquisition.
Yet, we still do it. Or most of the time we do. Some of the time? Well, occasionally. Not recently. But in the past. Sometimes, at least—sometimes we write.
Speaking frankly though, most of the time, we don’t. We clean the house, daydream, overeat, take long walks, make trouble for those who have the misfortune of living with us, weep, self-medicate, nap, throw temper tantrums, watch television—do anything but write. (Hey, not all is lost: during the last two years working on a novel, I taught myself Latin. Carpe diem, anybody? Just don’t ask me about the novel. I mean really. Don’t ask.)
There are times when I fancy the life of the non-writer to be among the happiest possible. Not to bother with any of it, with the effort, the patience, the courage, the faith necessary to be a writer. Just to let life flow and leave it all behind—wouldn’t that place us snugly upon the Isle of the Blessed?
Of course it wouldn’t. I wouldn’t be typing this now if I thought it would. So there has to be a reason. Grand or small, deeply philosophical or just plain dumb, there has to be a reason.
And I think it is this. In writing we encounter what it means to be human in a way that is fundamentally unique from any other activity in which we engage. Or perhaps I should speak only for myself? In the process of writing—of crafting words with meaning, of telling a story—I feel I engage with my own humanity in a way I don’t doing (almost) anything else.
Writing is difficult, complicated, confusing, beautiful, terrifying, awe-inspiring and ultimately without any foundation other than what we are able to create for it. So is life. Writing requires work, heroism, intelligence, dedication, understanding, love, maybe even a little madness. And so does life—at least, if one wants to live it well. And to the degree that in writing I find what it most fundamentally means to be human, I suspect I will always endeavor to write. And further, although the temptation to avoid writing will continue to sometimes get the better of me, I believe that writing will prove ultimately worthwhile. In doing it I feel I am being most human and alive, even with all the aggravation, uncertainty and fear those conditions necessarily imply.
Writing is hard because being a human is hard. Maybe one is not so different from the other.
This post is part of our annual Lit Matters series, in which writers and readers express why supporting and elevating literary arts—the mission of Lighthouse Writers Workshop— is important to them. If you agree, consider supporting Lighthouse on Colorado Gives Day. Mark your calendar for December 8 or schedule your gift now. Thank you!
Chris Pickens is a long-time student of the Lighthouse Writers Workshop. He believes Lighthouse is at the top of a long list of reasons why Denver is a wonderful place to live.
