Some people see writing as a way to release emotional distress or to live in a place with unfathomable realities. Others see writing as a hobby, a passion, a career that they should pursue. For most authors, they fall into one of those categories. For me…it’s complicated.
Yes, yes, I do believe so. I also believe that everything happens for a reason, but that’s a topic for another day.
Why I write:
My tale is one of irony, and all you English buds know that it’s about to get extremely contradicting up in here. When I was younger, I was pretty weird. I’m still pretty weird, but we’ll get to that later. Main focus: I was weird. Now, if you really think about it, I was weird mainly because everyone around me was boring. I liked to always have a story, a map, an adventure at hand. I didn’t really have a lot of friends, but I didn’t care because I had the characters of childhood movies. I swear I was best friends with pooh bear for nearly two-fourths of my life, which is equivalent to one-half…which, being sixteen, I was buddy-buddy with pooh bear for approximately eight years of my life. Now that I think about it, that’s actually quite normal…
Here, let me try again. I was weird because I had my own way of doing things put aside from every body else’s ways. All the girls liked to sit around, absorb the elementary school drama, and talk about cute guys. Don’t get me wrong, I wanted to also, but I had higher priorities. I, instead, spent my time in my own world of fun. There was chocolate, lots of it, and Barney, which is just scary now that I know there was a man underneath the dinosaur, and nature. Oh, yes, I was definitely a tom boy. As I got older, I drifted away from that, but seriously, I still really love things other girls don’t, such as paintball, building forts, and pretending I’m scouting for the world’s rarest leaf.
Well, eventually, I began to realize that I legitimately had no friends. I really wanted to be in a group, and so I changed myself to fit in. By doing so, it just hurt me. I was having to restraint the real me just to have a couple people to talk to. Blah, blah, blah, sob story, I know. So, I’ll skip past the part where I was bullied and I felt depressed and de-do-dah. Let’s just say I developed what today’s society calls “haters”. Are you familiar with them? I know I am…
Here’s the deal-ieo. For awhile, their hate made me depressed but then my fifth grade teacher taught me how to write essays. Ew, I know, essays. However, I got to thinking that if I could write an essay, which to a fifth grader is SUPER long, then why couldn’t I write a story? I began to fantasize again, letting myself reconnect with my beloved Pooh Bear, Barney, and other fictional characters. I was able to take people from my every day life and turn them into something more. My best friend became the main character, the guy I had a crush on (who also had just moved away) became a mysterious place far far away from Earth. Suddenly, I was developing a story, a tale of choices and consequences, love and hate, wisdom and knowledge. I was able to ESCAPE.
Sometimes I think that I didn’t chose to write, that in reality, it chose me. There’s millions of unheard stories out there, and yet my hardly developed mind was able to receive a miraculous novel idea? I don’t think so. However, I’m happy writing chose me, because without it…I don’t think I would have survived this long, which really isn’t long at all. Writing was something I was gifted with and so I write because gifts are meant to be given.
My ultimate gift was a list of stories to write. Upon receiving that, I know what I am meant to do with it. I aim to share these stories, I aim to inspire other young readers to reach out and call for the gift of writing. Everyone has a story to tell, but does it matter if they never share it?
So, no, I don’t write because I want to or because it will make me money. I write because I’ve been GIVEN a reason to. Every face, every heart, every soul that walks past me could be another face, another heart, another soul that becomes a character of importance in my story. Even the most unrealistic of stories can be twisted memories of a real life. Remember that the next time you read a book: try looking deeper, because if they wrote it, it’s likely because they were GIVEN a reason to.
What was the irony in all that, you may ask? Words were what hurt me: the words of every girl who ever called me weird or every guy who ever called me stupid. Now, words are my only savior.
Jinapher J. Hoffman