On Writing

this is an essay i wrote last year. on the morning of my first varsity soccer game, i present it to you, the reader, and, although i may be heavy handed, awkward and blunt in some places, i think it describes my feelings on writing very well. i hope you enjoy!

On writing and why I write

Forty minutes ago, I had a great essay planned in my mind as to why I write and the true nature of all writing. Right now, I have completely forgotten every single word of it. I sit here, hoping some muse will inspire me to write the beautiful flowing poetry I had constructed in my mind’s eye only a while ago. But for the time being, I have nothing.
I wanted to start off this essay with a quote: some well known figure telling the world that writing is a great challenge that takes years to succeed in and countless hours of dedication, but, to be honest, I can’t find anything of the sort. Instead, glancing through writing quotations, I find these, just to name a few: “Advice to writers: Sometimes you just have to stop writing. Even before you begin”; “Typos are very important to all written form. It gives the reader something to look for so they aren't distracted by the total lack of content in your writing”; “A writer is a person for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.”; “Writing is not necessarily something to be ashamed of, but do it in private and wash your hands afterwards”. Exactly the kind of advice an up and coming writer like me would want to hear.
But really, now that I think about it, why do I write the things I do? What made me write for example, a story about Muslims waging war against Christian crusaders, or a poem about my experiences in the Deep South? The answer to this elusive question, I think, lies hidden, deep in the depths of my character and inner-self.
One of my goals in life is to leave an impression on the world. I’m still not sure yet if it will be a positive or negative impression, but I want to leave something that will make people in 200 or 300 years remember my name. Now, I know I may sound like a megalomaniac, but, to be frank, I don’t want to waste and throw away my one and only life like millions of people do each day. And are they remembered? Of course not. I am amazed at how whimsical and superfluous people think life is. They fritter their time away on useless pastimes, and only too late do they realize the fatal mistakes they’ve made. They desperately try to make some mark on the planet, usually with a colossal monument, but they fail to realize that buildings do not last forever. They too, like memories drift away, away, away, until they collapse and are completely forgotten for the rest of eternity. To put it in the words of Benjamin Franklin, “If you would not be forgotten, as soon as you are rotten, either write things worth reading or do things worth the writing.”
The amazing thing about writing is that words are timeless: they can survive the blood of war, the sands of time, and the rise and fall of countless civilizations. In the words of Herman Hesse, “Without words, without writing and without books there would be no history, there could be no concept of humanity.” Because of this, if I write, maybe, just maybe my words and ideas may be transmitted across the vacuum of time to reach new peoples thousands of years later.
But this is all too hit-or-miss. If I write something that only I know about, what are the chances that it will survive those thousands of years, those rises and falls of civilizations and the blood of countless war? If I write something that thousands of people read, that touch and change the lives of millions, well then, what are my odds now? Significantly better.
Therefore, it is imperative that I write something of substance, something that can reach out to all different types of people and draw them in. Something that will cause a fundamental change in the way people live their lives. Something awe-inspiring. Something that will unite the people of the world under one powerful banner. But most importantly, something that discusses and provides brilliant insight into human nature.
This is what I strive for when I am writing a story: to provide an underlying theme that causes the story to work on two levels. The first level is what is directly stated on the paper: a plot with characters. It is very important to catch the casual reader with this level, but it should not be the driving force of the entire story. The second level is that of hidden meaning: symbols, themes, motifs, anything that causes the reader to gain an unprecedented view into the author’s motives for writing the story. And it is this level that is so difficult for even the most skilled writers to achieve. Yes, anyone can write a story, but can they write a story that has meaning beyond the literal words?
As I mentioned before, to the average person on the street, the most important aspect of a work of literature is the plot, or what happens in the story. I have seen many a reader throw down a book in disgust simply because they perceive that there are no interesting events occurring. If only they could see beyond the words on paper and read between the lines. But still, if one wants to write a successful story, then it must be something that will attract the public as a whole, draw them in with a pincer-like hold, and let them go only with they have finished the story. The Da Vinci Code is a perfect example of such a work. When I first started writing, I would continually write about the intricacy and natural beauty of the many diverse landscapes I have seen. I would describe each location down to the smallest detail, and I would be very satisfied with my work. But very few others were. ‘Brilliant writing’ they said, ‘but there is very little plot, no action. People need action.’ In some of my recent works and some I have yet to write, I have done just that: injected action throughout the story that interests the casual reader, but at the same time include the intricate details of the landscape that advanced readers will very much enjoy.
So the muse has inspired me! I have finally set down what I have been thinking about for the past few days. I have satisfied my urge to write and can rest easy knowing that my thoughts are on paper. Although the majority of people consider it a painful burden, I enjoy writing very much, although it is often a great challenge that takes days, if not weeks, to fulfill. I will leave the reader now with a concise quote from Vita Sackville-West, as to why I write and what my inspirations are: “It is necessary to write, if the days are not to slip emptily by. How else, indeed, to clap the net over the butterfly of the moment? For the moment passes, it is forgotten; the mood is gone; life itself is gone. That is where the writer scores over his fellows: he catches the changes of his mind on the hop.”

Quick Short Story Ideas

Before I forget them:

Divide into sections:
The Drunkard
The Hunter
etc.

(something like that taking place either in the Yukon, or the Midwest)- characters of Eastern European descent. Basic premise, possible; hunting a bear that's been attacking their house/village.

2. There are three thousand volumes in the Bonn library. Three thousand, three thousand, ..... was saying over and over to himself as .... stepped into the foyer.

Some kind of spy story.

Anyway, these are just some ideas to chew on while I ruminate on my other projects.

Got back from Italy, pretty much sucked playing-wise, although everything else was fun. Now into preseason, then school, where I'll be sitting on the bench every soccer match, although if you stop and think about it, it really doesn't matter. I'm ready, having been in the semi-intellectual wilderness for the past three months; bring it on.

End of Summer (Philosophical Musings)

Well, after an extremely busy summer, I'm back home, save one more small excursion to Italy for a week with soccer. Junior year, here I come. Maybe I'm slightly fearing it, but from what I heard last year, sophomore and junior year at p. are essentialy the same. I've got my courses and they're set to be difficult. You know what, though: I'm up for it. I'm game this year, whereas last year, I slacked off at the end and was disorganized. None of that this year; I can't afford it. This is my life I'm talking about here, not some game. No longer will I be lazy; I will not be satisfied with anything less than the best. I know it will be a challenge at times, I'll want to quit, but I can't quit. I won't quit, especially on the standardized tests. I'm up for it.

Anyway, enough of my manifesto for the coming year. I just wanted to put up some interested writing I did when I was at Spoleto. I think it's pretty cool and I like my ideas. Here they are:

I need a second chance, over again, what would happen this time? Not the same, certainly. Not the same, it can’t be, it won’t be. But why then do you cry? I only talk, I want it a second time, many more infinite chances, love, hopes, dreams. I would kiss you behind the supermarket, I wouldn’t scream when the bullet flew into my thigh, and I would cry, cry, cry, cry, to see you once more, touch you. I don’t know, that’s what I see in those infinite progressions of water that no man should ever touch, for all is sacred. I’m walking away now, to life, to death, to health, to breath, Away Gentlemen! Away, away, away! That’s what I would do sitting in the empty rain washed square, rain spilling down my hair, my clothes, but I don’t give a damn, never did, never will. I stand, weight’s too heavy, I fall down and lie and lie and lie in the cold bitter November rain. What else could you do?


Looking at that gray, dying New Jersey sky, across the street from where I run and pray and cry everyday I met a small man and he looked at me a while and laughed. “Oppression of the people,” he repeated over and over until my eyes drew blood and I ran home, tripping past the post-modern concrete building in my way and little boys playing football in the streets, just like in the old days and I saw all that and you know what I did? I just kept walking into my fenced, gnomed front lawn, up the steps, tossing open the screen door, sticky from humidity, sitting down at the kitchen table facing the back yard and wishing I was someone else for the day.
I saw the man yesterday, and he never smiles at me anymore, I don’t smile at him, I can’t smile at him and children run when my footsteps echo against the trashed, ruined plazas of the projects where crack sells for 1.50 a kilo and nobody gives a damn how many guns you have cause there’s always someone, most likely the Mexicans down in the building over, who’s got more.

Yes, time will pass and yes, we will age and crash towards the inevibility of death, but why can’t we just live now, forget tomorrow, just …. I don’t even know, release, I guess. Yes, the future will become the present and yes we will all eventually encounter what we fear, whatever it may be, but right now, at this very moment, I’m here, I’m sitting, I’m in Italy, I’m happy.
I saw the lightening last night, flashing far over the hills to the north. Heat lightening. I could see the bolts distinctly and I know now that that’s my future. Too far away to be heard, but seen in occasional, awe-inspiring or fear-inducing flashes. There’ll come a time when the storm is on top of you, when wind batters the windows, when the rain spills through the open door, when all you can do is crouch in a little darkened corner, just wanting to get away from it. Sometimes, you’ll be soaked, sometimes hail will pierce you roof and pelt you and give you red welt on you skin and you’ll cry but there’s nothing, absolutely nothing, you can do to avoid it…

As the days get cooler and the sun sets earlier and earlier over the gently rolling hills in the west, I occasionally stop and ruminate for a time. I glance up and see all the stars I could never see before and I wonder: Is it worth it? All men question themselves at some point in their lives and I am no exception. What will happen?
There is a chance that all the work I have ever done, all the words I have ever written, will fall on deaf ears and mean nothing. I will exist in flesh, then fragmented memory, then nothing. All men play a sort of roulette in their lives, hoping, praying the little ball will stop on the square (the future) they’ve chosen. For most, it will not and they will lost everything, for their life is their bet. But for the lucky few, the cherished ones, the ones who supercede humanity and laugh in the face of death, they have won the bet and stand up and walk away from the table. There comes a point, I am told, in everyman’s life when he must decide if he will do what he loves and remain truly human, or if he will join the ranks of countless lifeless robots plodding through existence. For some, the choice has already been made for them. For others, through luck and skill, the choice is theirs.

So, there you have it. Some things to think about while I try to contemplate the journey ahead of me.