10 Reasons Why I Write

Everyone's life follows a different course, one way or another. People have different interests, different dependencies, different habits, and different quirks which make them who they are. Individuality is, as I've always said, purely in the mannerism. When asked who I am, what purpose I serve, and what ultimate legacy I will leave behind, my answer is always concise and wonderful. I write. Why is it that writing is a practice that many abandon once they've gotten over that seventh grade crush? I'll never know. Why is it that some people continue writing, writing anything, even if it is only sweet nothings on the bathroom walls? Some of you may never know. Writing is, to me, a pivotal and integral experience; one which can entirely alter the course of my day, week... life. There are a lot of reasons why I write. The easiest to explain is that I believe I can some day earn a living with my craft. But this is only a shred of the truth. In this chain of partially-related paragraphs I call an essay, I intend to give you my top ten reasons why I aspire to be a writer, whether professional or hobbyist.

Discontent:

That's right, friends. As a child, I wrote out of boredom- I used characters from Mortal Kombat and Calvin & Hobbes, whatever I was into that day. But it wasn't serious writing- I rarely even finished a chapter. When I started writing seriously, it was forged with none other than that beautiful, priceless ore of discontent.

You see, I had just discovered the joy that is Fantasy Fiction and I was about seven books deep in The Sword of Truth series by Terry Goodkind. I saw all the limitless possibilities balancing with a true storyteller's knack for painting his story with realism- so as not to overwhelm me with the pretentious, Dungeons and Dragons fantasy.

The only flaw was the ubiquitous use of stock characters. Not all characters were stereotypes, but many of them were. The real atrocity I faced, contradicting my beliefs that Goodkind was an amazing first-time author, was the fact that, no matter what the ordeal, not a single character ever developed. It was in this disappointment that I found the writer inside me.

I began work on my own fantasy world, with regions and cultures and histories, eventually finding a story and a cast of characters who- months later- disappointed the hell out of me. I kept the world I had created, revising, reprising, and refining for about three years until it became what it is today. Then I sat down and wrote about new characters. The next thing I knew- which is a major exaggeration- I had finished my first novel, "The Lonely Wood." It was 435 pages. 115,000+ words.

Nothing Else to Do

Ah, si! Those first days as a writer- and a poor one at that- while I painstakingly labored over every word of "The Lonely Wood"s first two hundred pages was simply because I wanted to and I had nothing better to do. Building a world is a lot of work, but it is work which can be done in your own head while working menial jobs. It's not something you want to do in a factory, operating The Mangler, perhaps, but warehouse jobs, fast food jobs, janitorial jobs, especially (these are all early jobs of mine, where my own little world was created) are perfect for oblique mental creation.

Over time, writing only when I had nothing better to do turned into not caring to do other things, so I might have some more time to write. This was what started me on the path to being a serious writer. Not just a hobbyist. Seriously, folks... I write at least six hours a day, on one thing or another. Including drafts for articles like this, which I haven't yet published for your viewing pleasure.

Voice

Voice is one of the most important aspects to me, yet it only ranks as number three, har har. Voice is something that not everyone can have- despite what your self esteem videos taught you in fourth grade counseling when the other children were at recess. Voice is a gift, but more than that, it is a skill. Some people learn that they have it. Fewer still seek to develop it. And, to be honest, some don't have it, but pretend to- and we all know them, don't we? That's right! They're the ones who taught your Creative Writing course and shot down everything you ever did, because their work on spaghetti westerns and bodice rippers in the late 70's were far superior to anything you could ever do. But then again, we can't forget that ageless truth: If You Can, Do- If You Can't, Teach. There is a reason these great sages and eminent scribes are teaching a course, rather than joining the curriculum of said course. You see what I did there? I got onto a perfectly relevant, yet tangent-like rant. But I made you smile, if only a twitch at the corner of your mouth. That is voice. But there is another aspect of voice which comes into play...right...about...

heah!

Informative Entertainment

There are two names that I was called throughout school (which did not end in death by bunga-bunga). I was called a class clown, and a know-it-all. What I've learned over the years is, seriously, the smartest kids get the biggest laughs. We're quick, we're snappy. We've got, I'm gonna say it: zazz. We have the vocabulary to push at people's boundaries and the ability to properly articulate. If you add that to the skill of honing your own voice (figuratively) you can be a know-it-all and still come up with something pretty "chuckalicious." Excuse that word, a little bit of Richie Tozier lives in my dirty, dirty mouth.
Anyhow, it's an art to make people laugh internally while simultaneously informing them of something they didn't know. I'm still a little new at it, so I just cheat and go for funny topics, like child-molesting werewolf/vampire hybrids with guardian dragons to protect them from evil-doers. By the way, if you think I mad-libbed that last sentence, refer to my February blog with a very similar name...

*Expletive Deleted* (Meow)

That's right, again! Being a talented writer is no different from being a rockstar, president, or Anne Heche. There's tons of 'tang to be gotten. I have, so far, charmed the pants off one lucky lady with my writing abilities... I'm well on my way. Come to think of it, I don't remember her reading any of it. Hmm. Okay, maybe she was just a ho.

The truth of it is, I needed a good number five spot for my top ten reasons. (And I'm still holding out for that kinky librarian/teacher type who really loves my work)

Balance

Okay, back to all seriousness. You might have noticed that I'm a little... well, up and down. I've never really outgrown that pubescent rollercoaster- hell, sometimes the carnival of my emotions runs it backward on its track and I'm in the first (or last) seat. I'm not a balanced person- when I'm not writing well. I'm not particularly sure what does it... If, perhaps, there is some sort of neurotransmitter secretion in my brain that balances my kooky chemicals when my creative flow is at its highest. God knows women have those chemicals (i.e. blood and bits of placenta) which turn on their bitchy mouths once in a while... Don't hate me for that, please. But I have a cycle, too. One which is not predictable by the moon's phase.

Jesus, if you don't believe I'm unbalanced, go back and read that paragraph again. I'm all over the place! I have run-on and fragmented sentences in the same sentence! Oh, and there's the whole woman-bashing and immediate, avid apology thing. And that weird carnival metaphor, what's with that? Anyway, contrary to this particular article, most writing balances me out. And I loves it!

The Weight of a Thought

For rizzle, punks. I think too much. Sometimes my knowledge weighs me down while my ignorance pushes me up, creating a very uncomfortable and un-sexy sandwich scenario. I have a lot on my mind for apparently no reason. I just get to thinking about Stonehenge being lonely and trains being forgotten and all sorts of emo crap. I try to talk about it, but I'm not so good at the whole saying the words and having them come out of my mouth good thing. So I write, allowing the thought to vent and get the fuck out of my head before dwelling on it makes me cut off my own limbs and eat them.

Escapism

Yup. Plain ol' unadulterated (or adulterated ;)) escapism. Sometimes I need to not be Grady anymore. Not because I don't like who I am or I can't deal with my life. Just because, sometimes I need to play dress up for the soul. I can be anything I want to be when I write, depending on the genre in which I am particularly engrossed. I can do anything, as long as I can explain it reasonably. It's my version of video games, or doing the whole stand in front of the mirror and suck my gut in thing that people do. Sometimes, Dekalb is just pretty damn lame. Sometimes, Grady is just pretty damn lame. For this reason, also, I write. But this is another reason to read. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink, a nod's as good as a wink to a blind bat, eh?

All For You!

Yeah, I even put you on my top ten reasons to write, for what would be the worth of writing without a reader? Exactly... Exactly one reader. It is for your escapism as much as mine- even more so, I dare say- that I write. You don't have to thank me.

Am I to number ten yet? I should have numbered the headers, darn it!

Because I Could Never Be A Lumberjack

Seriously, that looks really tough.

My Conspiracy Theories Made Flesh...

SO! Some of you may remember one of my last posts... About how zombies, however irrational, are entirely possible. Surely, there were many of you who didn't believe my philo(scoff)ical theory that scientists are actively involved in what is called "reanimation research," or, simply put: killing things, then bringing them back to life. To those of you who laugh at my uncited evidence, here is an article I found on the subject.

"In a series of nightmarish experiments straight out of a horror flick, scientists at a leading university have killed dozens of dogs — then brought them back to life.

The hapless pooches, who have their blood drained for up to three hours, are being reanimated in a bid to develop the use of suspended animation to help humans who are injured in combat or crime."

This is the point where I remind you that reanimation research could go a long way toward curing paralysis, reviving coma patients, or elongating human lifespans long enough for people to realize their own futility.

"In the unsettling tests, dogs of all breeds and sizes are put under, their veins drained of blood and filled with an ice-cold salt solution which drops their body temperature from a normal 101 degrees to near freezing."

"That puts them in a state of extreme hypothermia, making them scientifically dead — with no breathing, heartbeat or brain activity. But their tissues and vital organs are preserved.

The corpses are then brought back to life by returning the blood to their bodies, giving them pure oxygen and applying electric shocks to restart their hearts.

For a long time, the test subjects couldn’t be brought back to life after more than two hours. But recently, the researchers added glucose and more oxygen to the blood and have pushed the maximum time the dogs can be dead to three hours."

Now, three hours isn't all that long to be dead, considering that the coma patients that this would theoretically benefit would be unresponsive for much longer before this option were appropriate to explore. But how long do you suppose it takes for the soul to leave the body after death? Remember "Pet Sematary" by Stephen King? These animals were brought back to life, but they had changed inexplicably for the worse. It is my supposition that the soul would leave the body much sooner- like immediately- yet scientists, as wily and unconcerned as they are, would push the bar further...

“We’ve tried to get it to four hours, but we just haven’t been able to do it,” Kochanek told The Post.

What sort of thing could we expect from a reanimated doggy-corpse? Seriously, is there anything good which can come of it?

Nope. Not really. Can we really expect to kill an animal, only to bring it back to life ANY amount of time afterward without losing every thing but the physical body? Would the animal (or person, if you remember the purpose behind the research is) return to us, just as they had been before?

"The lucky ones turn out to be perfectly normal with no brain damage — although other dogs are stricken with serious physical or behavioral problems."

I understand that this isn't an exact science, but do you need to mess with it, at all? Seriously, sometimes pets and people die, sometimes they are rendered comatose; it's nature. Do we really want to try and reanimate their dead corpses seeking a minute chance that they will be returned to us exactly the same as before? Is it a risk we are willing to take? I hope this aids your decision:

Or how about this?


Or! Oh, yeah, I'm going there... THIS:


And that's all I've got. Hopefully my images here have spoken for themselves.

P.S. Yes, I can fuel all of my views with Stephen King's works to back me up.

Stonehenge.

Have you ever thought about Stonehenge? I like thinking about it. The ancient, archaic mysticism behind it, the spiritual intrigue, the historic questions left unanswered. but tonight I thought about Stonehenge in an entirely different light. A sadder, more futile light. Stonehenge is, as everyone knows, a mystery. The Druids behind its construction are long since dead, leaving behind no documented record of their purpose. What is Stonehenge? Many have made suppositions, but that's all there is. Guesswork which paradoxically raises more questions than answers. The magnificent stones have stood for thousands of years in their puzzling circles, overseeing the rise and fall of Rome, the rise of Christianity, and now the fall of piety and morality (in my opinion). But what is it? A gateway to another world, a meter to read the stars? A practical joke of such monumental proportions that we can't even find the heart to laugh? I don't know. But, as a breeze which dies away before having the chance to move so much as a single blade of grass, it might as well not exist, despite its glory. Stonehenge seems to me now, a lonely place, a sorrowful place. With the loss of those who understood it, it seemed, too, to have lost its soul; and yet the stones still stand.



I have to admit that I feel very much the same. The only people who have ever understood me are gone and, though I have a voice, my purpose is now a stoic and unmoving secret to the world. An unspoken understanding that there is, ironically, nothing there to understand. I, too, stand alone upon my grassy hillock, watching as time and existence continues to roll on its wheel with no concern whether I stand or fall. In this, Stonehenge and i are friends, but we are sordid companions who can never speak the same language, can never connect with souls that have seemingly dissipated from us like a fog when the sun breaks through the clouds.