Why I Write

Why do I, Natalie, write?

I have been asked this question many times, and have even written a few essays on the topic, including my college admissions essay, but most of those essays were a reflection of one work, and not of the whole, not of me and why I do what I must. Because writing for me isn’t a choice; it is a necessity.

Ever since I was young, I was a quiet and introverted individual. I didn’t like to share ideas in class, but I did like to go home and arrange a series of stuffed animals out on our plush carpet and create stories with them. I would create pamphlets and infographics about their different habitats, their government systems, and even their social and economic status. My mind was active and wild and out of control, but harnessed within stories, it was able to create beautiful things.

When I first started writing, it was in notebooks and on small slices of paper, and it was just for fun, but now, I write mostly on my computer and phone, and it’s not just fun and games anymore. I’ve often been in public settings, whipped my phone out, and began to write random scenes for the novel I have been working on. I sometimes wonder what others must think of me typing so viciously on my screen (most probably assume I am teenage texting-fiend, who is glued to my phone and my generations standards). I love one app on my phone in particular, which is called Bear. It helps me to organize my rampant thoughts, as they can come at anytime, anywhere.

I am predominately a fiction writer, but that doesn’t mean what I write isn’t real. In fact, writing brings clarity to my own life. So much of what I experience is poured out into the pages before me. I wrote an entire novel to cope with my fear of needles. I wrote about the grief of losing a loved one in another. These things are unknown to a reader— they might pick up my novel and read a normal fiction story about a prince who has lost his mother and now must ascend the throne or about a boy on a quest in search of a cure for a vaccine gone rogue. Every day, there are lies each of us tell ourselves, but for writers, for me, we address our lies every day in our writing. We say we are not afraid, but we write a scene about a child bawling at the thought of entering a new place. We say we’re finally okay, that we have met grief at its door, and then there’s a scene of a character throwing a pillow against a wall. I think that is why I read as well: to fall into a world of characters that can understand me, comfort me, be there when I need something to turn to. I’ve always loved fiction because it takes you away from the present and puts you somewhere else, even for a moment. As Laurie A. Helgoe has said: “Reading is like travel, allowing you to exit your own life for a bit, and to come back with a renewed, even inspired, perspective.”

This year, while I was on vacation, I think I realized for perhaps the first time why I really needed to write. I had been at a standstill for one of my novels, Demons, but scenes came every day for another work, Time for Me to Fly. I was in an especially hard place one of those days, and my mom said something to me I will never forget: “I think you need to write.”

I had been told countless times by family and friends that I should pursue something else other than writing. But I think that day, my mom realized that pursing something and needing something were two different things. I needed writing. The next day, I began to write a scene (one about illness, which is exactly what I was dealing with at the time— see what I mean about lies?), one that would continue for a few days, and would jump between parts of time. Writing isn’t linear. I used to think that when approaching a novel, we must write is as it goes-- that is, chronologically. That is the biggest lie that was ever told, and if anyone actually believes this, I am here to say that is never the case.

Writing is listening. I’ve often said that you never actually have control over a story— your character does. And perhaps that’s why writers create characters in the first place— to confront what is inside, and to have someone else tell them, because it is too painful to tell ourselves, the darkest lies within us. Or sometimes, the simplest, most beautiful truths. When I started this essay, this isn’t how I thought it would go, but here we are. This is writing.

I feel it is important to mention, though, that I don’t just write for myself. At the end of the day, writing is a gift and not something kept selfishly within your own mind. It is meant to be shared with the world! I write because I want someone to pick up my book one day, read it, laugh, cry, and say: “I finally feel understood.” My goal in life is to help someone through writing. I want every person in the world to know they are not alone.

Writing is complicated, and every person comes to it in different ways. I come to it out of necessity, but also because I know that I have the power to change the world. After all, isn’t that what we are here on earth to discover?