“I swear you have no life,” she said. “Why do you say that?” I asked, not looking up from my keyboard. She paused, probably wondering whether it was worth even responding to the top of my head.
“You spend so much time just writing,” she said, finally. “That is so boring. What do you get out of that?”
“A lot,” I said. “It’s fun and it calms me. And, that’s just the way I express myself. You probably have other methods.”
“I don’t see any beauty in that,” she declared. “Sorry, had to be said.”
“Ahh…” I mused. “That’s just the problem.”
Her point of view isn’t uncommon. Writer are pitied as much as we are admired, and even we wonder at times if we’re doomed to a slow and painful death by pencil point.
In movies, we’re often painted as socially awkward and hard to please.
Nice try, Hollywood.
I can never speak for all writers, but I can bet that most of us would never choose this life for the sheer fun of it. I write because of the strong love for words I have had since I was a child. It’s a part of me.
Many non-writers don’t write because no one ever showed them the beauty in the ink on a page. And I can’t blame them. Writing is made out to be a chore in school, something to get out of the way quickly so you can move on to fun things.
Writers tend to spring from that small group of children who naturally loved language anyway, finding it easiest to express their thoughts in words.
But even non-writers can learn to appreciate its beauty.
Imagine a world where writing didn’t exist.
You couldn’t send a letter to your grandparents. You couldn’t write down the stories you heard. You couldn’t make note of things you had seen.
If we couldn’t write, we would have to remember it all. And human memory tends to disappoint over time. That great idea you had in mind can vanish tomorrow if you don’t write it down.
That’s the beauty of writing.