Why Write?

Because I Gotta

There’s a guy on Instagram, an NYU marketing professor named Scott Galloway, who encourages people not to follow their artistic dreams. His best advice for anyone starting out in their twenties is to find something you can do reasonably well, some steady, practical way to make a living, and do that. Iron ore smelting is the un-sexy example he gives. The most direct route to satisfaction, he argues, is financial stability. 401K first, community theatre later.

Then there’s Northwestern University professor, Bernard Beck, who taught a class called Sociology of the Arts back when I was an undergrad there. Art, he argued, is not a choice. If you feel the rhythm in your body, if that electric impulse moves you from head to toe, then you simply must dance. This “gotta dance” philosophy applies to all art forms - painting, sculpting, acting, bassoon playing. If you’d spend years doing your art for little money or recognition, you’re probably an artist. Do what you love and the money will (hopefully, eventually) follow. And if it doesn’t? That’s what gig work is for.

Watch the “Gotta Dance” number from Singin’ in the Rain with Gene Kelly for an example of how satisfied artists look when they do what they love. Or watch any NYC subway performer. They’re not getting rich harmonizing on the L-train but still, they persevere. I, too, am an artist. Why do I write? Because I gotta.

On my best days I love to write. On my worst ones, I wish that I had. And then it becomes like a trip to the dentist that I’ve been avoiding. If only I’d flossed more, it wouldn’t be so painful. At the end of my time in the chair I’m always amazed by how much better I feel. Lately I write every day. I do so prophylactically to keep the boogeyman away, to render my darkest imaginings powerless by naming them. It is only when I get through the layers of fear/worry/anxiety that I am able to reach the “flow” state where writing becomes a meditation, a portal to the truth.

I want answers and even though I’m not always sure what the questions are, writing helps me find them. My protagonists are my avatars. Their journeys show me what I need to learn; their struggles make me stronger. But it isn’t always that deep. Sometimes I’m just scratching an itch, writing about something or someone I can’t get out of my mind - that shitty boss, my college boyfriend. I’ll travel back in time, so I can notice the details, perhaps imagine a different ending.

I write essays and poems as gifts and to mark milestones - birthdays, anniversaries, graduations. I’ll compose a love letter to a time and place like 1970s Chicago or my grandparents’ home on 21st Street in Canton, Ohio. Why? I need to get it all down, for the record. So that things won’t be forgotten. So that I won’t be forgotten. Because there is only one me, with my peculiar life, and if I don’t say in so many words that it happened, people might never know.

Writing is my contribution to the time capsule, a plea to future generations: please do better. Except, my tone isn’t so Canadian. It’s more like, “Wake up, you idiots! We’re destroying the planet and each other!” The rage is just a cover for sorrow. Earth school is downright heartbreaking, even when you sprinkle in a little comedy to make it more tolerable. If we can’t laugh, we really are doomed. I want to say that writing is my salvation but that sounds so cringey even if it’s true. Why do I really write? To connect to you out there, somewhere in the galaxy, whoever you are. You with a narcissistic mother, an estranged sibling, a drug addict dad. You, lonely-only child with a big grin for the camera. I see you. Read my words and know that you’re not alone.