why do i write? because i’m compelled to…

A few weeks ago someone asked me: Why do you write? I thought about this question for what seemed like hours but was only really minutes, because I wondered how do I answer such a deceptively simple question: Why do you write? Although I wanted to sound sophisticated and scholarly, I decided instead to speak from my heart. I said, I write because I’m compelled to, because I have to, because not writing would be like denying an essential part of who I am. How could I not write? I said that it would be criminal to not make use of the extraordinary gift of which we’ve been given, because as writers we’re word weavers, artisans, the voices of our time. And this year, 2009, is transformative. For the first time in my life, I feel as if we’re on the precipice of something remarkable. Gone are the days of apathy and comfortable complacency; we’re now embracing social awareness and responsibility, the importance of working until our hands are raw and our voices the loudest whisper, the need to change how things have always been done, how stories have always been told. We’re singing the siren song that is change. And here you are, writers, pen at hand, finger over keyboard, poised, ready to take flight. Ready to transcribe the monumental and historic, so that our children and their children will know that this magnificent time, in which we live, is like no other.

But let’s be real. People are out of work or in fear of losing their income. Our daily struggle to maintain shelter and keep our families fed is hardly poetic. People are suffering from sicknesses, some of which are curable, many of which are tragically not. We live in a world where doctor visits are luxuries rather than necessities. And although we’re armed with all the latest gadgets and modes of communication, in some ways we are more disconnected from one another more than ever. Meaningful conversations have been replaced by instant messaging, and our heartbreaks and life changes are announced in 140 character-count status updates. We live in a fast and furious culture, and we sometimes wonder if we can keep up. So we wonder, in our darkest hours, if the American Dream as we know it still exists, or whether it’s merely an idea, an apparition, a light once blazing now flickering out. But in spite of all of this, I assure you that there’s hope. Somerset Maugham once said, “The only thing which makes it possible to regard this world we live in without disgust is the beauty that men create out of chaos. The pictures they paint, the music they compose, the books they write, and the lives they lead. Of all of these the richest in beauty is the beautiful life. That is the perfect work of art.”
 So, this is our work, fellow writers, and the start of our very auspicious journey: to mine for beauty within ourselves and in the world in which we live, to bring this beauty out of dark and into the light. To find our voice and speak it, shout it from moving cars, fire escapes, and rooftops. To find our story and share it, because words have this magnetic ability to bind us to one another, because regardless of where we live, the color of our skin, or how many zeros are in our checking account, every human being profoundly understands hurt, loss, joy, and love. And our words are connectors – they’re able to unite, even when it feels like everything else is falling apart.

Although writing is a solitary act, each of you has the power to comfort, inspire, educate and transform others. This is the writer’s progress. This is what separates the true writer from the one who writes to achieve celebrity.

Because being a writer isn’t about fancy book parties, handsome hardcovers sitting prominent on bookstore shelves, or the accolades of our peers – don’t get me wrong, these are all very nice things, but they’re merely things; a published book is an ornament, not a checkmark of achievement or a validation of your character. They don’t make us a man, nor a woman, and more importantly, and they don’t make us a committed writer. A writer isn’t someone who publishes a book; a writer is someone who writes, constantly, obsessively, and passionately. A writer seeks to communicate without interruption, bound on a constant, tireless search for truth – he or she looks deep within him or herself, then peers out into the world and tries to make sense of and between the two. In short, the journey of an artist is to show the reader where you are and where you’re going.

For me, writing was a way out. I grew up, daughter to a single, narcissistic, drug-addicted mother in an area of Brooklyn where the definition of prosperity was dodging pregnancy or a beating. It was the 80s – a time of boomboxes and Adidas, and my poetry of choice was Slick Rick, EMPD, and A Tribe Called Quest. By the age of five, the words dope-sick and overdose were mainstays in my vocabulary, and I never knew the blissful ignorance of being a child because I was forced at an early age to be adult. I was a ten-year-old parent, keeping watch on a woman on the road to ruin. And in this dark country to which I had been a prisoner, books and sheets of loose-leaf paper saved me. I could whitewash the world and everything in it, and then stare at my blank canvas and create. I alone had the ability to breathe life into characters, and make the world over anew; the power of a pen and a determined mind is that profound. Writing gave me the ability to speak when I was silenced. It afforded me a refuge, allowed me to cry out when I had no voice. My stories were cathartic, filled with wonder, excitement, joy, and rage. They were sometimes ridiculous, terribly overwrought, and riddled with cliché, but that’s okay because stories are much like children – they’re temperamental, imperfectly perfect, and in need of nurturing (and revision) in order for them, and you, to grow. My writing and determination to live a life that wasn’t dictated to me, gave me the strength to put myself through college and graduate school, to publish a book, to be a professional, and it gave me the great privilege of sharing this with you today.

Don’t ever settle for anything less than extraordinary.

As the years passed my prose evolved from raging rants to the quiet, complex tales that old men in Marbolo hats sitting on milk crates and women perched on stoops used to tell us. We kids from around the way would listen, rapt with attention, because these were people who lived; they were our teachers. Chest heaving, voice raspy from a two-pack a day habit, they cleared their throats and proceeded to recount their epic tales of neighborhoods that had fallen to blight. Kids hitting the pipe, working the street; kids (to quote Jay Z) who would do anything to make a dollar out of fifteen cents. They talked of their once-beloved community as if it were a cracked pipe ready to burst, a dress worn down to the seams. The men on milk crates mourned for what once was; they cried out, bitterly, for their expansive lawns and digital televisions. Why did they need deadbolts and stainless steel locks, yet thirty miles east in Long Island people slept with their doors open. And we kids realized that the stories our elders were telling us were not just about our home, but how our community fit or didn’t into the larger picture.

The progress of an artist is to venture beyond oneself, challenge oneself, and understand the influence the world has on oneself and ones work. The mark of a great writer is not how loud one shouts but how well one listens. A writer is a tape recorder, a camera obscura, the eyes of our culture – you record what you see, go home to your quiet place and tell your story. And what makes us wholly unique is the fact that we each possess a different lens because let’s face it, every story has been written every which way, the magic is in how you tell it. And that’s another part of your journey – making others see.

A few months ago, I attended an event, The Whiting Awards, where we honored young, promising authors. Rarely am I moved by literary speeches, but Barry Lopez’s words put my heart on pause. I’d like to close with a quote because I feel that his words so eloquently and so succinctly emphasizes the plea I so fervently want to impart to you today: “You are here today because each of you sees something in the spectrum of visible light that the rest of us do not see. And if we read you, and can attune ourselves to your language and imagery, we will know more of the world, having read you, or, just as important, we will have been reminded of something essential to life that we have forgotten…Insofar as you are able, I would ask you, then, to be wary of the distractions of fame and the blandishments of commerce. I would ask you to be tireless and devoted in the courtship of your own imagination. I would ask you to nurture your friendships, your allegiance with other human beings. If you feel grief or rage or love, give it a shape so that we as readers will know what you mean, and be able to better understand, better cope with the landscapes of our own grief and rage and love. Write until your mind goes blank. Write until your heart is nothing but ashes. Please.”

-My speech for the BMCC Writing Awards, 2009

This entry was posted on Tuesday, May 26th, 2009 at 7:13 am and is filed under the writing life. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.