Why Do I Write: What’s in it for Me?
Why do I write creative fiction? That was a question posed to me by a cousin I was once close to. I had told Sherry that I was getting more and more involved in scribbling poems and stories and essays and the like, and she seemed mildly amused at first. Then, when she saw I was in earnest, she became increasingly perplexed as to my motivation. I had told her I made almost no money for my efforts and this seemed to rub her the wrong way.
“Why, then,” she asked in bewilderment, “do you do it?”
Until that very moment I hadn’t given it a lot of serious thought. Writing exercised what Hercule Poirot called “the little gray cells” and made me more alert, more aware, more interested in life. Moreover, it made me feel good. I was retired and had little else going on. Most of my friends were deceased or moved away.
“Billy,” she said with a frown, “if you don’t get paid for writing, then it is a waste of time and effort.”
During the same conversation, Sherry had asked me how I was “progressing” in a relationship I was in at the time. When I was noncommittal, she got down to it: “Have you scored yet?”
“Not everything,” I told her, “is so transactional.”
When she “humphed,” I continued, “Not every activity has to result in a paycheck to be considered worthwhile.” Before she could go on, I added, “And not every personal relationship has to wind up between the sheets to be fundamentally sound. No one is keeping ‘score,’ cousin, so just cool your jets.”
That was two years ago, but the question remains: why do I write?”
I think it’s because when I write, I am master of my universe. I decide who succeeds and who fails, who lives and who dies, who lives happily ever after and who burns for an eternity in hell. This is quite an ego trip. I know a little of what God must feel like. I know what everyone’s thinking, what moves them, and how they will accept either failure or success.
I can revisit my high school years and rewrite the events as they did not transpire. I can ask out the prettiest but most demure girl and she’ll say yes. And I’ll have the dough to take her out. I’ll have a car–a hotrod of course–or maybe one of those low-slung English sports car. Nothing is too much.
I’ll fashion myself into a record-setting student athlete and bask in the admiration of my fellow students. I’ll get an A in calculus rather than a D. I’ll try out for and grab the lead in the school play. It’ll be a musical, because unlike reality as I lived it, I’ll be able to sing. And join a garage band and wind up with a record contract.
I’ll stand up to my abusive brother and fight back and kick his ass. I’ll get the after-school job I could never get and earn money to take out more pretty girls. In college I’ll study and not party but for the spring breaks in Florida that I could never afford to attend. I’ll make my parents proud and they’ll never have to bail me out.
I’ll say none of the stupid things in life that I did say. I won’t hurt anybody’s feelings and won’t allow either of my two cats to die and my best friend won’t have abusive parents. I won’t be teased for having Tourette’s or being disabled with Parkinson’s Disease and peripheral artery disease and poor eyesight and hearing and all the rest. I’ll still be able to lift my weight and play soccer and run five miles. If not myself, then others will carry the banner and succeed where I failed abysmally.
I write so that things turn out right, and not to shit. I live vicariously through my characters; I learn lessons I was too stubborn or dense to heed before. I am a normal child, teen, and now old man. I have children and grandchildren who flock around me in my dotage, rather than live alone in a hovel in the American Midwest. That’s why I write.
Sherry and I have not spoken since she posed her question, but I’m alright with it. I’ll know now what to tell her, should she ever call again. But she’ll not be argumentative this time, since I’ll be writing the script.