Why Write?

When I was about six or seven, my Mom dropped me at school very early. She always had hard jobs, which meant she had to wake up at 4 am, prepare for the day, then she would take me to school. It got lonely because it was like a daycare but before school. Consequently, if you are here, your family does not have the luxury to drop you off on time, however, you would not be late, like ever. I spent these mornings with older kids usually, I was timid, though I had never had any problems socializing, a trait, that might stick with me these days. I remember drawing my very first comic here: "Bill, the Sailor", who had a similar steamboat as Mickey Mouse in "Steamboat Willie", but way smaller. Captain Bill's adventures would be put down on a slip of paper every morning, with childish enthusiasm and imagination. A couple of years later I wrote a poem about the colors of Fall, which earned me an "A" in school. Although it was done purely as homework, my Dad really cherished this poem - which, mind you has nothing special in it: it follows the boring end-of-the-line rhymes, and depicts Fall with the usual colors of orange, brown, and yellow. I would guess that this was the moment of a proud Father when his child created something that could be considered a creative piece of writing - something that deviates paradoxically from the expectations of school.

Again, sometime later, instead of a diary, I wrote a scrapbook on dinosaurs, illustrated with images of dinosaurs, that were drawn in a manner that I truly hope did not exist in this form.

The first breakthrough was a short story I wrote during my first year of university. The idea of the 6-page long story was conceived in a Philosophy lecture, which I was quite bored with. It was entitled "Octopus" for some reason, and I sent it to my friends and professors. I think they were too kind to read it or to refuse it, and I fully understand. After the initial success of finishing my first short story - full of very blatant references to the writers I was reading back then - I started to write more and more and ideas never failed to bombard my mind. However, writing was transformed into the essential tool that substituted my wish to direct movies. The ideas I had were quite visual and they always failed to represent what I exactly had in mind. Which, again, is fine, these are the limitations of the written word. They might bereave one of the intended images of the author, but they are gracious enough to provide you with new doors into your own psyche.

So why write? Why shall I write? These are the two questions I keep asking myself: having many unfinished pieces scattered around my digital desk drawers, does it matter? In the age of social media and the ever-narrowing attention span, why bother? Are the future readers going to bother reading even two pages, when there is a reel out there? And then, why shall "I" write? What is it that I really have to tell the world? I really do not possess the answers to these questions, so I keep writing. 2016 marked the year of my first book "Voronoi Horizons", which was both a therapy and a mental mapping of myself. A therapy to process my Mom's death and cognitive mapping of how my desires and losses intertwine, forming a mental compass of some sort that would show me the way in my journey here. I do believe that writing creates my trajectory, which means it is a selfish business. A condensation of whatever has happened to me made into words and stories, that can carry some relevance to some people. Is it fiction sometimes? Yes, I truly believe that fiction is the way to get us closer to our complex inner realities, it is the bridge with which we can arch ourselves over the gap between our mind and reality. Not just language, but the language of fiction. As a form of art, writing (as music or films) is here to fight the worthless war of us trying to convey our messages to the world.

And there is a pattern here: in my writing, I want to conquer the unknown, the traumatic presence, the what-ifs, and the losses. These are the characters in our lives whether we like it or not, and these need to be addressed. I believe there are forces behind the texture of reality as we know it that have a great impact on our lives. This amalgamation of imagination and real events is what I am drawn to, the continuous discovery of the undiscovered, the challenge of putting something into words that has yet to be named, this is where I truly thrive when writing.

My grandfather wrote a lot in his diary, though I never read what he had to say. These writings seemed to be contemplation on life and drinking mostly, but he scribbled a lot of pages to be fair. Now, I do not know if it has something to do with me, genetically or not, but the intention to write is here to stay with me as well. It is a force that from time to time directs me to sit down and put words on the screen and then, use my imagination to connect some dots. Once, I wrote something like this:

"There is this constant challenge of cataloging your thoughts, these embryo-like stories in your mental library, constantly feeding them with the flux of your impressions, experiences, love, frustration, anger, disappointment, loss, fury, hate, wonder, desires or fear. If you are lucky, these embryos start to breed and create worlds and if these worlds are strong enough, you can jot them down or type them, and by the touch of some godlike entity you are able to present them to an audience that will appreciate these literary cocktails of yours. I am no writer, I am just the bartender in my own club."

Sometimes I get asked how I come up with these stories of mine. And I honestly do not know exactly what to tell: I see a photo from which I make up a character, then a story. Sometimes, these characters stay on the shelf that I mentioned in the previous quote for years and then I find them the apt scenario or world to live in. All I know is that these happen very quickly and forcefully, something that Rick Rubin talks about in his book, "The Creative Act: A Way of Being" - a message from the universe that needs to be orchestrated through yourself.

I have to disappoint you: like I said, I do not know why I write, nor why I shall write, but I keep doing it because that is something I truly enjoy. Whether it is in the form of "Bill, the Sailor" or not, I intend to continue examining and observing where the texture of reality will split and how to find the words that can faithfully interpret what I have seen.