February 11, 2K15
As I sat in my Rhetoric and Composition class today, my professor chose to end our hour long conversation with a single question.
We had just finished discussing the process we each took in writing particular essays and the note taking strategies we used in order to gather information worthy and helpful enough to mold together a well-rounded, meaningful piece of work. We spent time individually explaining what information we chose to jot down and why. We spoke and listened to our peers and found how idiosyncratic note taking can be. As we sat and wondered how to better our own skills with the knowledge of these new methods, our professor simply and swiftly asked us, “Why write?”
Immediately, and almost instinctively, I wanted to reel on about my own various reasons. I wanted to spit out the absurdity of the very question. I wanted to stand up and rage for the preposterousness of even assuming that there is a life without writing, without words, without expression that involves only the movement of our fingers tapping on a keyboard.
I looked around at my classmates and their notebooks in front of them, I peered around at the bookshelves that were consuming the space in the room, I focused in on the papers that flooded the surface of the table in front of me and smiled as I glanced over the correction marks and underlined phrases.
This is why we do what we do.
For conversation. For questions, for analysis, for arguments, for research, for experimenting, for doubting, for sulking, for rejoicing, for escaping, for relating, for dreaming, for the fulfillment and life that goes alongside creating.
We write for different reasons, surely. We are each drawn to different stories and we find life and meaning from different aspects of our days. How cool is that. To be separate and bound to one another all the same.
We are born to create. I know this more than I know exactly what size of shoe I wear. (I swear I am an 8 one day and a 9.5 the next. How is that so.)
So, what do you create? And why?