People ask me what I want to do and they seem surprised when I say “Write”. Why? Because apparently people look at me and see someone who is smart, who can do all these things, and who can “command” a room. That’s not true. The truth is, I may be smart–but I’m not as smart as everyone thinks. I can command a room, but not with power or interest.
You see, ever since I was little I had a simple idea of what I wanted to do “I want to make a difference. I want to save people.” It seems simple enough–there’s so many things to do. So I tried. I tried to be a biochemist–to dabble in it in hopes of becoming a cancer researcher. Well, it turns out I’m rather shit at science. Honestly horrible. I pass classes only by studying my ass of, but quite honestly I’m terrible at most anything that has to do with actual scientific testing. Plus it has a lot of math sometimes and I suck at math. I can barely do arithmetic in my head.
So I thought, maybe I’ll become a psychologist. Sadly, I apparently am not good at talking to people. Well, at least in the way psychologist’s should. I understand them, but I’m really bad at actually listening and giving helpful advice…or so I’m told. Besides, I get too sad listening to others problems. It hurts me to see other people’s pain so intimately.
Well, then what if I did something else? A doctor! I can be a doctor. Too bad hospitals freak me out and to be honest, I don’t think my own mind would allow me to be a doctor. Plus I won’t lie to you…I’ve never given it an honest try because I sucked so bad at anything that requires deep concentration and a steady hand (I’m a natural klutz).
So then I realized I was having a problem. How can I help someone when all that I tried I was either not good enough at, just plain out got bored with? I was at a complete loss. Everyone was telling me I could do anything and yet I knew it wasn’t true because I did have limitations in my own skills. What was I to do? What could I possibly do to “save” people and make a difference? Write.
It took me a while to come to this conclusion, but I’d always been writing–ever since I was a kid (y’know–on the walls with crayons). So my solution was staring at me in the face. I, who raved about stories that changed my life. I, who always was inspired to write down what I saw around me. I–I could be a writer. All of a sudden, I realized that stories, art–they can make a difference. They can make someone feel not so alone, they can inspire, can heal. Stories have this beautiful power of being able to be whatever you make them. Which is why I decided that I wanted to write stories; beautiful stories, powerful stories, stories that showed the good and the bad of life. Stories that came from somewhere deep and showed a part of the human experience.
Ever since I came to this conclusion, I’ve been able to proudly tell people “I want to be a writer” and when they ask I can tell them easily “because I want to make a difference. I want to write stories that’ll touch people. That’ll give them hope or make them feel less alone.” Because I may not be good at math or science or talking in great crowds, teaching, or more, but that doesn’t mean I can’t change someone’s life. No matter what you do, you can always change someone’s life. Maybe not in the obvious ways, but even just the smallest.
One thought on “Why do you write?”
Such a huge and unselfish feat.