On Writing and Writing On

I love writing.

It used to be you could always find me with my nose in a book, magazine, perhaps even the occasional newspaper. I used to love reading too. I still like it, but...

Now I love writing.

Hopefully it doesn’t make me vain and conceited that I enjoy writing my own words better than reading what’s already been written. It certainly makes a little harder the task of going back over what I’ve already written, at least. No, I don’t even enjoy reading what I’ve written as much as I enjoy writing it. But maybe with regards the writing of other people I am a little arrogant in that I enjoy speaking more than I enjoy taking the time to listen. Yes, I worry that such is the case.

Nevertheless, I do love writing.

I first began learning to write well when I began to endeavor past what was required in school, beyond what was required to pass my classes.

My interest was piqued as I took to internet forums in junior high, debating with men much older and more educated than I. Not wanting to show my youth, or let on that I hadn’t known the definitions of all their terms before pulling up Dictionary.com or Wikipedia, I worked hard at the beginning to sharpen my skills in spelling, grammar, punctuation, and vocabulary. I soaked up like a sponge new words and new ways of expressing simple, common ideas. You might say I was eager to employee le mot juste, or “just the right word” as the French say, in every conversation.

And yes, that is to say that I first began to care about writing because I didn’t want to look foolish to debate opponents or on-lookers. Moreover, I wanted to win and prove myself the wiser and more able arguer. In hindsight it seems to have been rather proud of me to have been that way, maybe a little misguided, but those reasons seemed good enough at the time. And maybe they were sufficient to get me to where I am now.

But it wasn’t all debate either. I also spent a lot of time reading science fiction before college, and I think that helped a great deal. Among my favorites were Isaac Asimov, Frank Herbert, and various authors of Star Wars fiction. I swear my brother and I must have checked out and read every Star Wars book at our local public library. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings trilogy also became an instant favorite when I read it in high school, after I saw Peter Jackson’s film adaptation of The Fellowship of the Ring (2001) in my freshman year.

My grandmother was always sending subscriptions for my little brother and I – National Geographic, Smithsonian, Popular Science, Popular Mechanics, Discover, Reader’s Digest. So we were always reading articles about what the latest and greatest discoveries and developments around the world were. Our bedroom and library walls were covered with maps pulled from National Geographic, and posters bought at the many zoos and museums my parents took us to. Daily we were reminded of how big the world outside was and could be.

In more recent years, as I made long work commutes, or when I held a data entry job for a year and a half that had me bound to a chair 6-8 hours a day, I listened to audio books. One title after another, I enjoyed histories and biographies, books on philosophy, politics, economics, culture, and how to manage myself well. As my hands and eyes focused on driving and typing where I was, my innermost being visited other times and places and imagined what else there is to know and do in this life.

My imagination is good now, or at least better than it would have been without these influences. I’m used to reading and greatly admiring authors who employ vivid imagery and weave a grand story out of the ideas their creative minds conjure, and also those who, basic facts in hand, use their personal perspective and opinions to speculate and highlight important persons and events from the past, present, and anticipated future.

Some part of me has always thought of writers as being on an elevated plane, myself in awe of their ability to convey excitement and enthusiasm about what’s going on outside my home, outside my town, outside my country, and even outside my time or this galaxy.

I watched Star Trek growing up, for instance – a lot of Star Trek. In fact, a main form of punishing me when I was a kid was threatening to take away my Next Generation privileges. Though I know we can’t yet (if we ever will be able to) beam people and objects across distant points like Mr. Scotty did, there’s something about what a good writer does that seems much similar to those transporters in Gene Roddenberry’s stories.

A good writer takes your heart, mind and soul to another place, though your body remains seated on your couch or lying in your bed. Reading a good writer allows you to see through someone else’s eyes and think their thoughts, even if only for a moment, to consider what you may have not known you didn’t know.

Good writers make life seem so much bigger, though objects and places distant suddenly feel much closer. Through reading a skillful author I realize and remember that those objects and places I may have once heard about do still exist, or may exist, and that it is possible to see them, since indeed the author has seen them, or he spoke with someone who saw them, or he at least hopes and wishes to see them. Sometimes just hoping to see them is enough too.

Good writers have contagious perspectives, I’ve found; by reading them I at least have hope that perhaps I will someday see what they have seen. You want to see what they see, be where they’ve been. And in some sense, if they’re able to write well, you get your wish, and you keep reading them to continue seeing through their eyes.

So perhaps it’s not all vanity after all that leads me to enjoy writing more than reading. Perhaps I enjoy writing because I feel that by writing well, or at least getting closer to writing well as I continue to practice the art, I become a better person.

A confession: I always imagined those authors I read to be better persons than I. So in writing I feel that I am growing and maturing, and hopefully giving others an opportunity to grow and mature. Perhaps through my craft they will see lands that, though close and familiar to me, have always seemed distant, even non-existent to them. Perhaps even if I am not ever a great writer I will trick someone else into thinking at least temporarily that I am, or that they may become one.

So I suppose I’ll go on in my love for writing. And hopefully others will love to read what I’ve written. And they’ll continue to write, and I’ll read what they’ve written.