Why Write?

My Google Drive, filled with scrapped drafts and half-developed plot lines, became the hobby’s mausoleum. The bits of dialogue and character details I’d scribble into the margins of my math notebook began to wane. It was more a descent than a decision, slowly creeping until I had stopped entirely.

It wasn’t that I didn’t enjoy writing anymore; it was just that it was simpler to fall into academic essays and scripted presentations than to write something that required me not to dissolve into someone else. As I went through school, it was easy to mimic—easier to copy the language of a Shakespearean sonnet than to write something that sounded even close to mine. It felt good to disappear behind someone else’s voice, leaving every sentence perfectly impersonal, but it felt better to make it seem like I was never there at all.

In my last full semester of community college, I took an Introduction to Creative Writing course. I had already blown through nearly all of the English electives and was determined not to get stuck in another science lab if I could help it. The class was new and worth just enough credits to round out my spring semester, so I enrolled. I figured I could write a couple of generic sonnets about love and whip out a quick story about an evil janitor or something equally as distant from myself and be done with it.

When the course started, it was different from my expectations. Instead of the two-seated tables smushed into rows, they were pushed together to form one long rectangle that crowded the center of the room. People talked, unafraid to chatter over one another when a point came up they disagreed with, voicing their opinions without restraint. The instructor guided us through conversational lectures, encouraging us to take his feedback with the same weight as our peers’.

I wasn’t sure what to make of it. I almost missed the static rows and boring lectures; at least those I knew what to do with. I felt off-kilter every time the woman diagonal from me noticed I had something to say or the guy beside me asked what I did that weekend. I hated how I embarrassed myself every time, slowly trying to sink into the background and make people forget they ever saw me.

For the first workshop, I did exactly what I initially planned. I submitted four poems, two of which were sonnets, and patiently waited for my workshop date. As I read through my classmates’ pieces and wrote editorial letters, I felt stupid. Their work was beautiful, all striking imagery and heart-wrenching lines, and mine was nothing. I felt my writing was bad—felt it was sloppy and overly lyrical and generic—but seeing other people’s work made my stomach curl with shame.

When my workshop came, it was, to my surprise, fine. Everyone was kind and open with their critiques, explaining why they felt each piece would benefit from their possible suggestions, and I hated it. I wanted them to rip the poems apart. I wanted them to point out the fact that they were all terrible. I wanted them to forget they read the poems at all.

After class, I found myself stuck reading one sentence from my instructor’s editorial letter over and over again: “My biggest concern is there is no desire here to take risks or break the rules.”

That sentence stung more than I wanted to admit.

Once all of the poetry workshops were complete, the instructor moved on to the nonfiction unit. I didn’t think I was going to enjoy it, as I didn’t have much familiarity with nonfiction, but I was pleasantly surprised. The stories he assigned were fascinating, ranging from personal accounts to journalistic pieces. His big question was always “Why share this story?”

The first time he asked, I thought it was kind of obvious: You share something because you want something in return. For that piece, it was awareness; for the next, it was policy change. By the time I started writing my own, I figured I was right.

I picked something I was ashamed of—something that I hadn’t shared with anyone—because I wanted a better grade on my second workshop. I hated writing it. My skin ached and I couldn’t sleep, but I thought that if I showed that I was taking a risk, I would do better.

And I did. The workshop was good, and the instructor gave specific critiques about places where I could improve. Everyone was the same as they were in the first workshop: kind and understanding of all my mistakes. I wanted to drop out.

I couldn’t understand why no one would just tell me the truth: that my writing was meaningless and achieved nothing. I hated knowing people now knew something about me — something personal and close and terrifying. It felt like I’d given a bit too much away, like they could suddenly slip past the seam of my skin and claw their way into my skull if they wanted. I was nauseous the entire drive home.

The last note I made during the workshop was “Why did you write this story?” At the time, I wanted to believe it was because of a grade, or to raise awareness, or any reason other than the fact that I just wanted someone to see me. In retrospect, it was never about anything else.

I still feel scared to share pieces with people. I worry that they’ll pick every part of me out of a story and agree that it really doesn’t mean anything to anyone. I’m not always sure that it does, but it’s easier now to think about why I write than why I don’t. It’s not a product or an end goal, but a process of connection. I could write a million stories trying to use someone else’s voice or ideas, but none of them would mean a thing to me, because I would have no reason for writing them.

Stories are a gift, an invitation to share what it means to be human in all of its struggles and imperfections with someone you may never have met otherwise. They offer a glimpse into what it would be like to be someone else, to escape into somewhere that forces you to take a new perspective. And as terrifying as it may be to create, that makes it worth it.

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