Why I Write


Madeleine Prucha, Co-President

For all my life, I have been drawn to the written word.  Like a lamb to the slaughter, I have become complacent to its’ call, submissive to its’ every desire, so much so that it has consumed a part of my identity- and I now call myself a writer.  How I fell into this state of being, however, is less exact, and is something I ponder from time to time.  It is only when I take a moment to truly delve, to dig deeply through the nooks of my convictions, that I am able to gain any insight into my investigation.  Here is what I have uncovered so far:

I write because the human voice gives words a certain legitimacy that I cannot always ensure. I write because some things are better left unspoken. I write because the sun makes me gleam and the cold makes me cry. I write because I feel more than I should from the things that I shouldn’t. I write to cease the endless motor that is my thoughts. I write to rev up the engine.  I write to perform, to slip and sneak into separate characters, wholly different from the ones I play on a daily basis. I write because it grounds me like gravity, gluing me back to consciousness when my mind decides to drift too far.  I write to cut the connection cables of others.  I write to lock up the thoughts that ravish my mind into a compartmentalization by which I cannot be hurt. I write to turn that key. I write to fill my MacBook notes with more enticing things than food journals and incomplete to do lists. I write because they say it heals. I write because I love ripping up my own wounds.  I write to zone out into junctures of productivity. I write to avoid the tasks that really need to be completed.  I write because it’s daring, a risk I undertake through each and every line of prose.  I write because it is safe, an enterprise that can be completed from the cowardice of my bed.  I write because I am told to. I write because I am told I am smart, and smart kids write. I write because I am unsure of that label, and what I want it to mean. I write to impress.  I write because I fear it is the only thing one would find impressive about me. I write because it is expected of me.  I write because the third grade girl who read her poetry at talent shows to a gloriously uninterested audience needs something to be proud of in the shell of a human she’s now become. I write because the fifth grade girl who declined to return and read wanted to do anything but.  I write like there is no end in sight to the English alphabet, no interpretation or organization of those 26 damn letters that I cannot concur.  I write because words are colors and feelings and pains and tremors and they are so so much more than just words.  I write because it’s a funny thing to do, to make organizations of symbols that represent utterances to evoke feelings that inspire more utterances.  I write because I wonder if the Neanderthals who first wrote were aware of the power it would one day hold.  They wrote as they were trying to survive. I do the same. I write because good writing speaks louder than anything that can be found on a decibel scale, piercing the eardrums and the brainstems of those who encounter it.  I write because a mistake made on paper is far easier to erase than one uttered to the human ear.  I write because it is more permanent than vocation, and is less easily forgotten. I write to manipulate, to weld the opinions of others into sculptures that resemble mine. I write to allow others to realize they are being manipulated.  I write because I am obsessed with connotation, and it’s subsequent confusing misunderstandings.  I write because I like to confuse.  I write out of delibracy. I write for no reason at all.  I write because delibracy is not even a real word, but I think it should be. I write because I am entertained and humored by the very concept of a real word. I write because I have always written, I will always write, and I have always been the girl who writes.  And I keep writing- I write until my hands cramp and my eyes swell and the ink from my PaperMate InkJoy .7 millimeter pen runs skippy and inconsistent and disgusting.  And I stare back begrudgingly at my skidmark of a masterpiece and sigh and wonder if it belongs in the hands of a publisher or the depths of a dumpster.  And I just can’t tell.  I can never, ever tell.

And this is why I continue to write, to torture myself, why I will always be a writer.  I am in constant desire of the answer to that question.