An Apology to Writing

I owe writing an apology. I had started to not like writing, even condemned it, over the past half year. I dragged myself or completely skipped creative writing classes. I immersed myself in experiences to forget the feeling that, while sitting in the back seat writing and detached from the world, one, too, can find beauty. I condemned writing because it was wish fulfillment. I could not write.

For that moment in my life, I hated writing and although I had no desire for it, I did feel a little odd. I could not pinpoint why I wanted to write then, and I told myself it was because of wish fulfillment, but the explanation was unsatisfactory. Now I applaud writing because it records the most true of human experiences and allows us to relive them. It is memory, but all the more florid and vivid and most of all, shareable. With writing you can not only live your life, but allow others a scarce glimpse into what once a private experience. No one’s life is the same, and there is no bette measuring stick than a story. Oral or written, the record of human experience is essential to human understanding. It may be that you write to role play a desire, but it is not because you lack the life to live it. It is that writing will in every way be a skeleton ready to be fleshed out by its reader, and this is magic. In wish fulfillment writing you may think that you are just writing to experience vicariously, but, it is this skeleton building that allows you to later on refine and pose that skeleton of lived experiences you want others to see. The art of whittling life experience into a frame, contradictorily, requires hefty embellishment on the writer’s part. You must be creative, and creative means you let loose the gates as often as possible, as passionately as possible. When you let thoughts pass into your mind and explore them to their ends, it is good. Life is good. You reveal to yourself and to the world the many facets of you and your understanding which may hitherto be undiscovered.

You can’t write only knowing writing…and nothing of yourself or the world. Like many writers I wrote to fulfill my wishes: but it made me blind about the fact that I could also tell the truth. I envisioned writing equal to pursuing threads of exciting but ultimately un-scaffolded stories and biographical fiction as boring. But what if I were to combine the two?  My taste, I envisioned, would be a gentle hybrid of the two: a humble, truthful but exciting fiction with lots of room for imagination.And when the scaffolding comes from real life, and the zest of the story also comes from real life, readers will intimately know that this story is real, and the story is also less likely to implode from a lack of substance. Creativity doesn’t have to be the making up of stuff from nothing, but the painting of a magical golden sheen to the everyday rust of life.


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