why I write
This has been on my mind a lot, lately, mainly because I’ve been reading even more than usual, and examining with a bit of a microscope other writers’ styles. I’ve written since I was a child, all through my teenage and young adult years, and now through my thirties. I’ve read since I was two, and I suppose started to analyze writing, in my early teens. And while I’ve always loved reading and writing, and approached both with a delight and trepidation, I was always turned off and bored by the excessive pretension of over – or hyper-analyzing a written piece, be it grammatically or stylistically, or any other “ly” you can name. It robbed the joy of reading and writing, all this blathering and prattling on about Dorothy Parker versus Samuel Clemens or Victor Hugo and how he was or wasn’t influenced by Voltaire, and why so-and-so’s prose worked better or failed when stacked up next to some other’s, and the litany of didactic and pedantic reasons why this may be so.I didn’t care. I enjoyed comparison and contrast, symbolism, metaphor, irony, the rise and fall of plot, the color of characterization, but all this hyper-analysis took me out of the realm of loving words and made me sort of ill with academia.
So let me say this, and just clear the air:
I write for the same reason that I act. I like to tell stories and cause emotional response! That’s it. That’s all.
I don’t wallow in four-or-five syllable words that seem, to some, more powerful than they are, I don’t obsess over nearly-elusive grammatical errors, I don’t have a copy of Strunk & White out whilst I craft a story, and I (clearly) don’t care if I have to employ a run-on sentence or an adverb or two to get across a certain point or feeling.
If any of this makes me “less of a writer” in anybody’s eyes, I simply could not care less. I’ll say it again: I write to tell a story, or to elicit an emotional response in the reader, not to impress somebody with a Doctorate in English.
From this particular blog entry, and examples given in this blog, you can decide whether or not I’m the kind of author you even want to pay attention to. If I’m not, bon voyage, and have fun reading books that make you feel important and elevated above the unwashed masses, as opposed to entertaining you. I believe there is a place on every bookshelf for the likes of Voltaire, Chaucer, Poe, Lovecraft, Joyce, etc. to bump up against King, Koontz, Rice, Westerfeld, Cast, or any other author the reader sees fit to read. But please, please try to overcome living under the delusion that an obsession with the classics is a sort of license to do the “superior dance”. Give me a story over flowers any day.