Why am I a writer? If one is asking this to one’s self, he/she probably needs to take careful thought to how one is asking it, and what exactly is it he/she is asking. Is it the age old question any unique madman—(woman)—will ask himself when a certain obsession causes added turmoil in his life? The turmoil writing can most prominently create comes from some form of neglect, because neglect of all other things for certain durations of time is what the obsessed do, and the writer is obsessed. This question internally invokes only one response for me; because writing is what I do when I can do it. But being a writer is unique, because if you have not been published nor making money doing it, the question, “why are you a writer,” often meaning, “why do you call yourself a writer,” becomes a matter of justification. And for some reason it can be a hard question to answer.
One of the main reasons I need to call myself a writer is because there are too many thoughts and emotions that I need to sort and express, and I am just not a speaker. When I speak I avoid anything too personal. It may be something that I am knowledgeable, and usually therefore slightly passionate about, but that does not mean that I am tearing my soul out, hanging it out on the rack so I stare and explore it, rearrange and replace it with something fresh, as I am doing when I write. Our thoughts, our ideas, are like children born estranged to us and we must sort out the details and give them a place to flourish. Some of these ideas are standing barefoot, faces marred with dust, mud, the mixture of sweat, dirt, air, and sugar, or sweetener I suppose, that a child can build upon its youthful face and then stand proud and hopeful that there is finally a spotlight on them, and it will not simply pass by and then ramp up the earth and wind behind them in circles before fading out, and moving on. These are the faces only a parent can love and the light we shine on them must stay focused on these childlike dreams until they illicit an attention so fixed that it stays until everything they must say to us, scream at us, and demonstrate for us, are gone from the heart and placed on the white background of the page.
And of course some of these ideas are more fortunate than others, spoiled by the amount of attention they get. They are the popular thoughts and ideas that may, or may not, lead to something tangible and or worthwhile. The short story that cannot be walked away from until its rough draft is smashed out in full, and the writer is left drunk and exhausted. Often I experience episodes I call the “creative hangover,” a period when my circuits are fried and my thoughts and emotions have spun themselves into a feeding frenzy, ghost sharks ripping and thrashing apart the cortex of my mind. A dark quiet room and sleep is often the only cure, other times the cure is a trip to the park with my kids and a good book. I have no problems in identifying my addiction to writing when nursing a “creative hangover,” than a drunk has in identifying his dependence during what alcoholics call “a moment of clarity.” Perhaps in matters of the self, consumption and depletion should not be identified as opposites when all resources have been exhausted.
Today, after finishing Black Boy, I started Richard Wright’s Native Son, and by the time I finished the 1st chapter I had listed out three new things that I wanted to focus on developing and toy with in my writing. I have posted a more concise rendition of this list at my desk so that I will not get too sidetracked and will stay focused on these ideas (ideals) for at least the next two weeks. This brings me to my most self clarifying justification of the title writer. I am a writer because I spend an insurmountable amount of my time reading, studying, and inculcating the prose of those that have come before me, and then inspired and fueled with excitement, I work on my own.
