Why I Write: A Startling Revelation

After watching an episode of Hoarders, I found myself once again inspired to spend some time de-junking my home. The warm, stuffy musk of the garage beckoned me so I decided to begin there with boxes that have remained unopened since my last move.

Now, a smart person would not even peek in the boxes using the following logic: The boxes have been untouched for nearly two years, thus the materials within said boxes must not be important. Throw 'tall away and ask questions later.

Curiosity simply would not allow me to do this, and sort through the boxes I did. I'm ashamed to admit that one box was nothing but empty CD cases. However, one box was a treasure trove of stories I had written years and years ago. When I was in fourth or fifth grade, I began a series of tales called "Muffin Stories." They were about a lady named Sarcel who had a little bakery where she made the most disgusting muffins imaginable. As I browsed through some of my earliest attempts at writing, I was shaken by a revelation. My motives for writing have changed drastically since I was a kid, and not for the better.

When I wrote the "Muffin Stories," I wrote them purely for my own amusement. I enjoyed using the word "muffin" for some reason, and even more I enjoyed making up strange names like "Sarcel." If I said a word aloud and the sound made me snicker, it was going in a story. Coming up with onion-mustard-and-chocolate muffins and other awful combinations was also amusing to me.

I can't remember when I wrote something for myself alone. Lately, I have been writing not for me but for the validation I hope to receive from others. Now, part of me still does write "for me." I do have these stories and characters in my head I just have to let out, but now I constantly think "will grad schools like this? Will an intellectual like this? Will a potential suitor like this? Will writing this make others think I'm smart? Talented?" This is flawed thinking, and for one week I am conducting another experiment not unlike the TV fast. Which, by the way worked really well...for about two days. Oops.

This new experiment go as follows: For the next week, I will not strain myself with my writing stretching for literary greatness. I will not write for grad schools, professors, of that literary journal. I will write what amuses me, regardless if nothing wonderful comes of it. I just want to see what writing without inhibition feels like, if only for one week.