Why I Write, And Why I Don’t

Let’s cut to the chase, I’m dyslexic so writing should be the last thing I’d want to do, right? You’d think the way the words dance around on the page would be enough to frighten anyone off from trying to wrangle them into submission. In fact, I find fear of words the major factor in why I don’t write. Oh, there’s boredom and laziness; everyone suffers from that, but it’s usually down to a fear of getting things down on the page that is a major stumbling block for me.  Other story-tellers talk of writers block but, so far, I’ve not really suffered from that; not yet, anyway. For me its far more fundamental than that.  If you don’t suffer from a reading and writing problem then it might be a little bit hard to visualise. Then again perhaps everyone has similar feelings when trying to create something on the page, I don’t know. What I do know is that those days when I hide from the keyboard can be dark days, where my confidence in delivering a story is sorely tested. It’s worse when I write in public.  I’ve mentioned before that I sometimes have free time at work that enables me to write, edit and blog. But these times become more stressful than others because of the ‘over the shoulder fear’, the fear that someone will see the raw text as I am writing it.  You’d be surprised, or perhaps not, how bad the first draft of any of my writing can be.  Sometimes, and especially when I come back to a piece after an extended period of time, just trying to understand what I meant to say can be a real task. Everything I write, therefore has to go through at least three drafts before anyone gets to see it, and that’s before the proofreading stage.  Even this blog post that you’re reading will go through that process. Trust me, the first draft was terrible. And no, I not going to let you see a raw piece. That’s the whole point. I hate that I suffer from word blindness, dyslexia or what ever you want to call it.  It is a constant source of pain to me, therefore I do everything in my power to hide it.  And what do I do to bury it? Lots of things really, but the over-riding thing is giving myself time; time to re-work the passage into a state that is acceptable. I go over everything sentence by sentence, again and again using multiple tools to correct, coerce and cajole a text into shape and that requires time. If you asked me to smash out a blog post in ten minutes and post it up on the website, then I’m not your man.  What I do takes days, even for a simple blog post. It also requires others to proofread it as well. It’s not easy and it’s not fun but it does prove that anyone can write. It just takes willpower.

So lets go back to the title of this piece, apart from me talking about why I don’t write, what does makes me write?  I suppose it comes down to that adage, ‘Everyone has a book inside of them.’  Humans are story tellers; we have been since the dawn of time.  Everyone does it.  We chat, we talk, we recount.  Our entire lives are spent talking to others; sharing our experiences, our lives, our desires. Right down to what we are going to the shops for. For me, ever the chatterbox, story telling has been a part of my life always.  All the way back as far as I can remember.  When I was twelve I got hold of an exercise book and a pencil and started to write the next chapter in the Star Wars saga, because that’s what kids do. Of course no one could decipher what I was trying to say and the story was lost, although I do remember it had a lot of Jedi in it flying through the air doing summersaults. But what it did show to me was that I had stories inside of me.  It just took a few more decades for technology to unlock them. I had to wait for the word processor to be invented before that day would happen.  And I had to wait for the rise of the internet before I could let other people read my stories. So I ask again, why do I write? And the answer is because I can. I am lucky enough to have access to technology and people who allow the stories inside of my head to become, in someway, real. Real for that fleeting moment as they dance across the imagination of the readers mind. A story which has lain dormant in my brain is given the spark of life and allowed to jump into the mind of another. Where a scene unfolds and is imagined anew. It’s an alluring prospect; to pass on a thread and let it grow in somebody else’s mind.  Just the thought of how differently someone else might imagine a character or place that I created is enthralling to me.  Do they see that character in the same way as I do? I know what I think that character looks like, but they might see him in a totally different light.  It’s almost like that thought many people have, ‘do others see the colour red the same a I do?’

So there’s the answer to the question.  Why do I write, because all of that is possible. Because it is as natural as breathing for all of us. I can’t imagine a world without storytelling. In fact I think it’s impossible. I might struggle with the words, I might have temper-tantrums when I can’t get things down on the page correctly, but would I stop? Not on your nelly.  I couldn’t.

So, tell me a story…