Why I Write

As this piece of work (essay, prose poem, journal entry-- how is one to refer to this?) is a mere assignment, I will make an effort to avoid becoming too wrapped up in the grandeur of the manifesto that the title of the assignment implies. That being said, this may be the first time I have ever seriously considered the question "Why do you write?" and I do intend to try and answer that with honesty, which may result in some rather lofty prose. We will see how it turns out.

I write because its fun. I write because its one of the few things I have every felt truly good at. I write because of word jumbles and puzzles and equations in my head that I have to solve before I can sleep. I write because there are some things that I cannot speak. I write in order to relieve my mind of the thoughts that pester me. I write so that I can remember who I was yesterday, today, and tomorrow. I write so that there will be a record of my short and relatively inconsequential life - my thoughts, my friends, the people who have influenced the person I am becoming - for those who care to read it, just in case I disappear into some obscure rabbit hole someday. I write to document the mundane and the massive. I write to imagine the lives of the old couple down my street, what they say to each other while they plant flowers, how they hold each other while they sleep. I write to try and get outside myself, and, if only for a moment, to expel the demon of self-centeredness that can control me. I write because, sometimes, I have to, and not in the puffed-up, driving, unavoidable, "I was born to write and can do nothing else" sense that that phrase implies; I literally have to in order to make the grade. I write to learn. I write because I read. I write so that I have to research and expose myself to other ways of thinking, believing, loving, and living. I write the way I dream, working out problems in my subconscious that my conscious self does not want to deal with. I write to relate to others. I write to inspire others. I write to inspire myself. Some days, I write to get myself out of bed when nothing else can convince me that the day is worth living. I write so my mom will know I love her. I write so my dad will know I still need him. I write so my family will know I am thankful for them. I write to dig up my roots. I write so I can hear the sound of words penned simply because they are beautiful. I write because of the path laid out for me by poets, novelists, journalists, essayists, critics, and the daily diary authors of the past. I write to affirm the fleeting gift of life, so that perhaps one day, somebody, even if that body is me, will pick up something I have written and think, "I want to live today."

The Dearly Departed

There is a dead cat in a box of trash on the sidewalk
following Freeman Street. The tail is unfurled in deep rigor
mortis and its paws are flexed, revealing claws that used

to scratch couch corners. The tabby rests beside a baby
doll, her plastic flesh colored black, her brown cow eyes gazing
straight ahead. As if she is bored with death. Which is unjust,

I think every morning as I pass the box. Trying to avoid the dead
stares, I picture freshly planted roses, or sugar cookies,
warm and gooey, as I leave them there and shuffle
past, with my tail between my legs.

Poetry as I see it

I enjoy writing of almost all sorts, and I want to learn to write better material. The only way to do that is to write! Go figure. The problem is that there are some days when I do not feel like trying. So, in an attempt to keep myself accountable, I've decided to turn this blog into a sounding board for my writing.

I never truly enjoyed poetry until last year. By way of scheduling circumstances, I wound up in a course on 20th century Irish poetry, and I was not excited about it. When we started off the semester with W.B. Yeats, I came to dread class even more. (Since then, I have come to appreciate Yeats, but I still cannot say I particularly enjoy his poetry.) As the class wore on though, we started reading such poets as Eavan Boland and Seamus Heaney, and thus began my love affair with poetry.

During the same semester, a few poets who are most often classified as "Spoken Word" poets, and have appeared on Def Poetry Jam, visited our campus. I had heard of their form of poetry, but had never really experienced it. After hearing Liza Jessie Peterson and Steven Connell perform and talk about their philosophies of poetry and art, I knew poetry had taken me. In class, I was reading poetry by "academics," and then I had been exposed to this more relaxed, yet highly skilled, form of poetry, and I found a connection between the two of them: poets like Eavan Boland and the Spoken Word poets were affirming life. Neither of their art forms were about using their academic prowess to confuse ordinary people, and neither of their forms were about diminishing the value of the ordinary person's life. Their poetry was not filled with the things that make "traditional poetry" beautiful, things like unfamiliar words or complicated meter. It was filled with simple observations and descriptions about life. I could dig this!

Since then, I have been trying to read and write more poetry, both Spoken Word and, for lack of a better classification, "traditional" poetry. Most of what I post here will probably be poetry, and I tend to write more "confessional poetry," so some of it may be pretty intimate. Don't let that scare you, though! If I am not afraid to share it with you, you should not feel uncomfortable reading it. And feel free to ask me about it if you want to! But please, be respectful about what you read here. I also have a strong interest in writing fiction, so hopefully, I will manage to post some of that as well. I want to hear what you think about it! Please be honest. (That is not a license to be unnecessarily mean though!) Enjoy!