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Why I Write What I Write
Each of us has a personal manifesto. Something inside us that drives us. Something that gets us up in the mornings. Something that gives our lives meaning. It may even be the thing that keeps us sane. For me that thing is writing. It’s how I make sense of the world around me. It’s how I sort through my thoughts. It’s how I share my ideas. It is my craft. It is the art I practise. It is the core of my identity. I write, because I must. Lately, I’ve been thinking more about my choice of subjects.
I often write about matters that are ugly, fraught, and anxiety-inducing: politics, race, fascism, climate change, and other unwieldy issues. It is emotionally draining to look at it all, process it, and try to find a way to discuss it meaningfully. I want the world to be a better place. I want to hold people accountable — especially my faves. I try to hold myself accountable. It’s a life of almost constant disappointment. It’s difficult not to descend into despair and melancholy. Sometimes I do. Then I write my way out of it in my journals. I’m not sure it’s the healthiest cycle. From time to time, I find myself wanting to be a different person — someone who writes about positivity and lifehacks and what brand of blender to buy. The truth is: I’m drawn to the darkness. I’m more comfortable there than I am under soft lighting. I am of the shadows, but I want to be made of the light.
