Words, Words, Words, or: Why I'm a Writer

Words power me. Words, for me, are important, from the small and perfunctory ones, like 'do', to the long and salacious ones like 'supercilious'. Words are the tools with which we make ourselves understood; how we show the world how we think, what we want, and who we are. It is not always our choice of word that shows meaning, but the ones left unsaid. The place where silence falls, the lack of a word, can say more than any utterance. These unsaid words live in our subconcious near the surface, where others can see them, or feel them, without the need for them to be said. They are most often the simplest words, the unsaid ones. Simple words with simple, transparent meanings are the hardest to say, and are hidden by not-quite-meaningless chatter, covered in a blanket of nervous words. There they hide until no other words will do.

So why do I write?

It is not my job, or within my power, to always find these hidden words. And that is not always the aim. In order to portray real life (which, in itself, is not always the aim) you cannot write the words that are never said. The idea is to discover these words, to know them in your own head, and make them clear through actions without ever explicitly uncovering them. The blanket of words above shows the shape of the words below, but keeps them safe.

I write for several reasons, the first of which is necessity. I write about what I think, I feel, or stories that jump into my head and won't let go until they're on paper. Ninety percent of what I write is unread by anyone other than myself. It is therapy of a sort, as well as an academic exercise, and a way of collecting my thoughts and keeping me sane; it is an unjudging outlet for both my conscious thoughts and unconscious feelings.

I am a writer for myself. I write without thinking of an audience - with one exception* - and write primarily original stories that appear in my head with a puff of smoke. The trick usually is in getting rid of the smoke.
Indeed, in my case, my dyslexia certainly doesn't help my cause. I feel a story fall into my brain, and it is immediately held hostage. It takes all my brainpower and strength to fuel an escape, and I only ever manage to rescue a few words at a time. And they rarely come out in order - the basic shape of the story is clear, as are certain brief important scenes, but teasing out the details that create the full story is always a challenge. It is like having a net full of words; I can feel the shape of each word and feel where it should be, but pulling them out through the mesh is like pulling teeth.

This is, peversely, another reason that I write. It is a challenge. It is difficult. At school I infuriated my teachers by being good at things, and therefore taking no interest in them (maths particularly - much to teachers' and parents' dismay). But writing, partly because of an odd kind dyslexia, and partly because of the nature of writing itself, makes me think. I can sit and think about a plot problem for hours, without managing to write anything, but solving it like an extreme puzzle and gaining the satisfaction of a hard job done. It takes me time to write. It takes discipline (which I currently lack, but am working on regaining) and motivation. A skill with words is almost secondary.

Paradoxically, although, or perhaps because, it is difficult, writing comes naturally to me. It is inherant in my body, my brain, and has always been the thing to which I turn for comfort. Not only the act of writing but the act of reading words is soothing. I read a lot, for enjoyment and in order to learn, both facts and how to improve my writing. And to learn how other people think, so future characters of mine can have more depth and realism.

I write in order to write. The more I write, the more I write. This blog is an exercise in writing, in order to help me out of my undisciplined slump and get me back into writing my novel. The more I write, the more I want to write - or that's the theory.

And, finally, I write because it is easier than saying things out loud.

* The exception was in writing a children's story, for which it was entirely necessary to think about audience, and as a consequence was one of the most difficult things I've written.