FictionAddiction

Hear from some of our past readers on why they write. That was the whole question–Why do you write? And these are their responses.

Alethea Black:

I write for love, because I love the written word’s power and its beauty. I write out of curiosity, to learn what the story is trying to teach. I write out of gratitude to other writers who have sustained me or widened my heart or made me think about something in a fresh way. I write as spiritual exercise, to keep fluent in inhabiting sensibilities other than my own. I write for peace, because I am curmudgeonly and unpleasant to be around (even to myself) when I’m not writing. I write as an act of saying Yes to what on good days feels like a calling. I write to feel connected to everyone. I write to feel most myself.

Edmund White:

I write for the money.  Seriously, I’m always broke and I’m writing to get the next payment from the publisher.  I also like constructing something–it feels like building a sand castle or a lego tower.

John Wray:

I have no idea, to be honest. It passes the time. I’ve also noticed that although horrible things happen in the books that I write, the horribleness doesn’t depress me or terrify me, for some reason. I suppose that’s because I’ve fooled myself into thinking that I’m in control of the situation.

Fiona Maazel:

Because it’s fun. It’s *really* fun. When it’s going well, there is no better feeling. This is a bad analogy, but watch me make it anyway: Imagine yourself playing an instrument, playing fast and hitting all the right notes–doesn’t that feel amazing? Writing can feel like that for me, and so whenever my writer friends begin to despair about their work, I always tell them just to try to recoup the fun of it all first. Forget what they are working on. Just let it rip. Howl at the moon. Go nuts. Obviously I have to tell myself that, too, since when it’s going badly, it feels horrible. I get depressed. Certain I will never write anything decent again. My life is over. It’s all over! But then maybe I write a sentence and kind of like the way it sounds. And then there’s this guy in the sentence who was born with giant ears and just got one pinned back to see how it would look and it looks great, only for some reason, he can’t afford to get the other one pinned. And he runs an organic cheese bar. And off I go. And I’m happy again.

David Goodwillie:

Because it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done, I think. It’s endlessly challenging. It’s an absolutely absurd profession, but I couldn’t imagine doing anything else. And I’ve tried a lot of other things–office jobs, non-office jobs. Also, I get bored very quickly and I like the idea of being able to dive into a world for two or three years and then get out of it and go into another world. American Subversive was my political book and now I’m writing a love story that has nothing to do with politics at all.

Saïd Sayrafiezadeh:

To define myself.

Joshua Furst:

I’ve got serious daddy issues, and cataclysmic mommy issues and I’m often overwhelmed with rage at the world.

Paul La Farge:

Honestly? It’s the only way I can even begin to reconcile myself to the fact that I’m only going to live for so long, and that time keeps passing.

Diana Spechler:

Because I can’t dance.

Adam Wilson:

I really like reading novels and short stories, and always have. The next logical step was to write my own. Also, I enjoy having a world that I can control. The real world seems very out of my control. On good days, the fictional world doesn’t.

Christopher Bollen:

There are a few reasons. I think that writers are very greedy about life. Our one life isn’t enough so we have to be constantly inventing these other realities to take part in. Or perhaps it’s because we can’t handle our own reality that we have to escape to other ones. But I think it’s this obsession with actually having more lives. I think you’re just fascinated by stories that you can’t live yourself. Also, it’s very hard for me to make sense of things when I’m speaking, so I do think it helps make sense of the world, to write it down. I think in so many different wheel-ways at once that writing is a really helpful way to cement it. Also, I’m such an addictive personality that I need something to be obsessed with. I would probably be a herion addict if I didn’t write. I need an outlet for all of my urges and it does that perfectly. When you feel like you’re contributing a great sentence or idea or character to the world, it feels great. It’s a mystery to me, why it’s an addiction. You get lost, but you also claim more of the world. It’s amazing.

James Hannaham:

I come from a family of artsy smart alecs, most notably my cousin Kara [Walker], but also my mom studied fashion design and then became a journalist, Kara’s dad, Larry (the aforementioned uncle) is a pretty successful painter and educator, my sister writes poetry in Russian, etc. etc. Unlike many households, in my home I got a lot of encouragement  to do creative things, so I tried a whole bunch and realized after way too long that I was strongest in writing, and that writing brought together a lot of skills from other artistic disciplines. Of course, interest and technical proficiency are the least interesting part of the battle; the other part is the desire to say something worthwhile. I was going to say that I write because I believe I have something to say, but it feels much more like Something To Say has me.

Matt Dojny:

When I was a kid, I was a voracious reader and writer; I even wrote a novel when I was in sixth grade, and attracted the attention of a literary agent who shopped it around (garnering a stack of very considerate rejection letters). But, in college, I had a creative writing teacher who was deeply unenthusiastic about my work, and a drawing teacher who was very encouraging, so I changed my major to Studio Art.

When I first moved to New York, I spent a fair amount of time trying to make it in the art world, but at some point—about six years ago—I began to grow tired of that particular scene. I found it depressing to have piles of unsold paintings cluttering my small apartment; and, when I did sell work, it made me sad that I was never going to see it again—it felt like selling off one of my kids. I started thinking about doing something different.

A while back, I’d spent some time living in Southeast Asia, and had written my friend John (Wray) some extraordinarily long letters that he thought might be good fodder for a novel. I liked the idea of making a reproducible object such as a book—something that wasn’t a precious singular entity like a piece of art. (Also, I figured that if my writing turned out to be unpublishable, at least it could remain hidden inside my hard drive rather than taking up closet space.) However, by that point in my life, I didn’t really consider myself a writer, and the idea of undertaking a novel seemed somewhat ridiculous. I decided to give it a shot anyway.

I originally was thinking of making some sort of art-book that had a bit of text in it, but, once I began writing, I found that I couldn’t stop. I felt like I was 13 years old again, and could just sit and write uninterrupted for hours at a time. To me, the most exciting thing about writing—when it’s going well, at least—is that I feel as though I’m having a kind of lucid dream, watching the narrative unspool before my eyes. (I realize that this sentiment is probably a major cliche, but, like most good cliches, it happens to be true.)

I also find that the creation of a fictional world makes more engaged in the actual world. I’m very intuitive when I work, and have a superstitious (and possibly narcissistic) belief that the world is constantly sending me clues as to what should be included in a story. (Recently, I very randomly came across a biography of the musician Warren Zevon, and he has now become a major character in my new novel.) Crafting a fictional universe gives me a satisfyingly god-like sensation, and I recommend that everybody give it try.

Marie-Helene Bertino:

I started writing when I was 4. I heard the voice Kermit sang about that “calls the young sailors.” It was someone that I was supposed to be. In this way, I write because I have to write. I was called. For that I feel extremely blessed.

Tanya Rey:

I come from a very loud family. Everyone tells stories and exaggerates a lot. I was quiet; I always had my nose in a book. But I was never not listening. I found myself writing, simply because I did. It was something to pass the time, keep me inspired while I studied for my pre-med classes in college. At first I wrote little echoes, exaggerations of my family’s voices. Then I realized I’d have to fictionalize their stories: no one would believe them otherwise. Now I write mostly because of guilt.

Benjamin Dolson:

One summer when I was a kid my mother bribed me to read books at the rate of one dollar per book. As a cash-strapped nine-year-old with an insatiable appetite for Hardy Boys books I found this to be a highly favorable rate.

Throughout the summer I kept a list of the books I read. Besides the benefits of reading, my mother’s bribe was also designed to teach delayed gratification. I wouldn’t be paid for the books that I read until the end of the summer. This was a marathon, not a sprint, lest I earn and burn my dollar bills.

My reading list was top-heavy with the Hardy Boys, Nancy Drew, and the Boxcar Children, but by midsummer I was being more strategic with my book choices, reading not for love but for the “Benjamins,” as they say. During our weekly library visit I would disappear to the children’s section in search of books with large print and a low page count (these were not inversely-proportional qualities in the children’s section of the library).

My list grew in leaps and bounds because of my new strategy. I even readjusted my projected profit for Q3 and Q4 of my summer earnings. Periodically, I submitted my list for initialing by my father, who, as the breadwinner, served as an auditor of sorts. After noticing the atypical growth in my reading list, Mom and Dad conferred and put into place some regulatory measures. In my defense, I was in a bit of a literary wasteland. This was before publishing houses realized they had left the Young Adult market largely untapped.

Despite the parental red-tape, by summer’s end I had read just over 100 books. Which meant, in short, that I was rich. Do you know how many Butterfingers and Mountain Dews one can buy with $100?

A lot is the answer, especially at Sam’s Club.

Nearly two decades later, that $100 is still the most money I’ve ever earned doing anything literary. I blame my mother’s bribery for connecting the disparate ideas of money and literature. However, I must also credit her with my love of books and therefore with my desire to write them.

Reading wasn’t my only hobby as a kid. (I wasn’t a complete freak-nerd!). I also built fortresses, castles, and bunkers with Legos, ushering around my yellow-headed Lego guys with all the vrooms, bangs, and pows one needs to authentically give life to a toy. Here was my first workshop in dialogue, conflict, and dramatic arc.

About the time I outgrew my Legos (if one ever does: have you been to the Lego store at Rockefeller Center?!), my father brought home an enormous PC for the family living room. It didn’t take long for us to find pirated copies of Civilization, the Sims, and Rollercoaster Tycoon.

What these games added (and what Legos lacked) was the element of strategy. Whether it was planting a rudimentary settlement or constructing a theme park, these games required me to build little worlds and set them into motion. In short, these games had a storyline, a plot.

If writing is a game, then it’s the hardest game I’ve ever played. But sometimes, I think writing fulfills this need to amuse myself, and so, it feels like a game. The challenge is similar: make something that works and that entertains you (and others, if you hope for readers).

Perhaps the best game/toy metaphor for writing is a simpler one: that of a racecar. The work of putting together the track and arranging the car’s mechanics is secondary to the fun of winding it up, setting it on the track, and watching it stutter to life after you let it go.

J.E. Reich:

I write because I’m perfectly useless at everything else.  Seriously.  You should see me operate heavy machinery.

Susan Tepper:

This is going to sound crazy but I need you to believe me.  I never had any intention of becoming a writer.  From age seventeen I was an actor, though I read voraciously since early childhood.  But the idea of writing sort of repulsed me.  In retrospect, I believe it had to do with feeling too “exposed.”   As an actor you get to hide behind another’s words.  As a writer you are out there.  So, anyway, I was going along and one summer I started to hear a little voice in my head.  Not “voices” like schizophrenics.  But one little voice kept telling me “write that story.”  It was annoying, actually.  But it must’ve made some inroads because that August I wrote my first short story (25 ms pages so it wasn’t all that short).  I took it over to the New School, to a class led by the writer and fabulous teacher Alexander (Sandy) Neubauer.  I workshopped the story and it was massacred.  But Sandy liked it a lot and told me to “keep writing.”  It opened a door.  That door will not close.  I have no further explanations.  Oh!  And while I was still deeply involved in acting, a talented psychic told me I would become a writer.  I started laughing.

Eliza Snelling:

A teacher of mine once said that there are two basic types of writers. Writers of the first type have had so many experiences in their lives that they need a way to externalize some of those things, to exorcise them onto paper. Writers of the second type feel that they haven’t had enough experiences, and so they create alternate worlds in which they can explore some of the situations and emotions they are unlikely to ever encounter in their own lives. For these writers, the world is, quite simply, too boring. I fall into this second category. For me, writing is a way to have an existence that is more expansive than I could otherwise have. It allows me to temporarily jump into other lives and to see the world from different perspectives.