At some point I had to embrace some sort of adult seriousness. That's happening now. Although, it is mixed with some inevitable teenage narcissism as this post is just about me. As a part of my Writing and Editing course this year, I wrote a "Why I Write" piece which was inspired by George Orwell's. I enjoyed the exercise so much that I kept on writing and editing, and editing some more all week and weekend. 

Before the seriousness starts though, it must be offset by frivolity. It really must. 

This is the only true writer meme.  Source:  http://literatureandlibation.files.wordpress.com/2012/02/writer.jpg

Why I Write

I write because my mother hated bedtime stories. The same story every night, about a piglet that ate too much food and got stuck in a fence. Eventually, she didn’t need the book.

I write because of my childhood; lived through a tattered green library card. There was a playground outside, but I was in awe of the mystery and vastness of the portal that even provided red ladybug cushions for the journey.

I write because I read. The divine amalgam of words, images, emotions and story incited me to try. Marquez’s ornate descriptions, Hesse’s internal interrogation and Walker’s womanism made me smile, ponder and question. I felt what they wanted me to feel, and maybe more. The power of expression lured me in.

I write because of Atticus Finch, Santiago Nasar, Adrian Mole and Edgar Sawtelle. I was there in their worlds, mixing my reality and their fiction. Or, was it their reality and my fiction?

I write because, sometimes, I don’t know the difference between dreams and reality. The line between my dreams and reality is blurred by words, images, emotions and stories.

I write because I can’t draw. I think in images and the only way I can convey them to others or record them for myself, is to construct them with words.

I write because of Beatrice and Benedick. The one thing more delightful than a wordy witticism is the gratification of its success.

I write because it makes me smile, and cry. It frustrates me, and calms me. It lets me rant and bitch, but also reflect and romanticize.

I write because I am sometimes ignored. People aren’t always interested in what I have to say.

I write because I like being alone.

I write because I don’t like sharing. Some things are too complex and personal to share with others. But, even when they aren’t, I don’t like speaking to others about how I feel.

I write because it gives me pleasure – the lip-biting ecstasy of crafting emotions, experiences and images, and the satisfaction of others’ appreciation.

I write because it challenges me. It’s more intricate and more profound than any mathematical equation. I am forced to think, and confront myself. It’s terrifying. The words don’t always flow, and sometimes they aren’t the right ones. What will they think? That’s terrifying too.

I write because it’s my chosen mode of expression. When I speak I stumble, and at times struggle to get my thoughts across. When I write, a steady stream of my consciousness seeps through my pen and saturates the pages with a scrawled soliloquy.

I write because prose can be more poetic than poetry, and poetic licence is the ultimate existential passport to enlightenment.

I write because I always have. Writing is one of those ingrained, almost mundane aspects of my existence. It’s always been there, like my sight, hearing, touch, smell and taste.

I write for me. 

It's called a straightening iron for a reason!

My mother's always telling me that I can't leave the house without brushing my hair or ironing my clothes. Usually I ignore her, but now that I'm living on my own and attempting to shade in the outline of the adult that I apparently am, I find myself taking note of her advice more and more often. So, I decided to iron my extremely wrinkled shorts this morning. I thought we had an iron lying around somewhere, but I couldn't find it and my flatmate was out. Fear not, for successful adulthood may just be near - I changed my outfit! Unfortunately this outfit had a collar that needed ironing too, so I used what my momma gave me and came up with a savvy solution. I used my hair straightener. And it worked. As you can tell I was rather pleased by this, unlike my mother. The conversation went like this: 

Mum: [Gasps dramatically, like Elizabethan heroine who has just had her honour questioned] "Did you burn it?"

Me: [Smugly] "No."

Mum: "You should just buy an iron. But, do you have an ironing board?"

Me: "No, I can just use my bed."

Mum: "No! You're going to burn all your clothes!"

At this point I started laughing. But, I wasn't laughing at the thought of myself in slightly singed shorts. It's hilarious that my mother thinks I'm going to iron all my clothes.