Why I Write

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In discovering the underlying reasons for why I write, I searched my mind for instances in my life when writing was an immediate necessity. A time when there was no way I could act other than to find a pen and paper and release the thoughts that were dancing around in my mind. This obviously rules out any academic writing I have done in my career—I can hardly think of a time when I had to put my life on hold to finish a four-page research essay—but a few instances come to mind when I stopped what I was doing in order to respond to an urge to jot down my own thoughts. These periods were times when I felt helpless, when my own thoughts about the world around somehow didn’t align with how I was responding—whether it was verbally or physically—and resulted in frustration, confusion, or even rage. Upon further introspection, I realized that this inconsistency has been quite familiar in my life, and can possible be traced to the creation of my own identity from a young age.

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Though it seems a bit strange to say—it seems natural for people to easily recall times of childhood mischief—I can confidently say I was relatively pleasant as a child. Don’t get me wrong, I had times when I stormed to my room hoping I would leave enough rage in my wake to garner some attention, but I rarely acted up in public or around my friends and family. This calm, cheery disposition carried into my elementary and middle school years, to the delight of both my teachers and my classmates. I recall multiple years in which I earned the class award of “most kind” or “most helpful,” or was sought out among my classmates to assist students coming to the school for the first time. I was the token “nice girl” in my grade, and quite honestly, took pleasure in being labeled as such. For the time being, I was distinguished from my classmates in such a way that brought positive attention, which was something to be proud of at the age of 10.

       

As the years went on, the labels of “kind,” “helpful,” or, in retrospect, the even more hated “nice,” became descriptors I heard on a daily basis. While I still appreciated the positive sentiment behind the descriptors, I noticed that the way people described me sometimes wouldn’t align with the very real emotions I felt in times of distress, including sadness or anger. The confusion I felt regarding the inconsistency of my emotions and the others’ perceptions of myself left me wondering: how do I begin to validate a full spectrum of emotions—negative ones included—when I have built an identity for myself on the exclusively-positive attributions of others?

 

I realized I had allowed others’ labels to craft my own identity. Even worse, if I were to acknowledge my negative emotions and thoughts—as any rational pre-teen would’ve done—I would be acting in direct conflict with the “pleasant” disposition for which I had come to be known. The presence of positive attributions inhibited me from validating any negative emotions. In some respect, I realized early on that to acknowledge negative emotions resulted in a blurring of my sense of identity, and, being the cautious person that I am (and always have been), I was not willing to consider that risk.  

 

By invalidating any healthy range of emotion, I gradually started to lose the power to define myself. I conformed to the perceptions of others out of fear that showcasing any true emotions—more specifically those of less favor—would cause tension with my identity and subsequently push others away. While I still led a joyful life with good friends and family support, I felt as though I was hiding a part of myself from the world—one that was allowed to embrace sadness regardless of others’ comfort ability, or that spoke truth when faced with differing opinions or disagreements. These aspects of myself were searching a platform for acknowledgment and expression, and, quite thankfully, found an escape through writing. Thus, it was through a pen and paper that I would soon be able to reclaim the power to define myself through my own eyes, rather than through the eyes of others as I had done for so many years.

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The process of writing itself, combined with the thoughts and ideas that appeared on paper, gives me a clear picture of who I am, one that counters the identity I had constructed through the perceptions of others. My own writing process is imperfect—it is never complete without frustration, doubt or confusion along the way. Once I come face-to-face with a finished product, however, I begin to view the world around and within me a little clearer, deeming all the uncertainty worthwhile.

 

This clarity that writing offers allows me to re-validate the less favorable emotions I had written off in everyday interactions. When I am alone with a pen and a paper, I am no longer bound by compliance to the “correct way” I should behave in social situations—I let my emotions guide me instead. These instances have appeared when my body encounters a “fight-or-flight” response. Given my generally non-confrontational disposition, the “flight” response usually wins out in this situation, though in a peculiar way. Where I may escape the situation physically, I am able to fight back with my words on paper. In those moments I feel as if I would explode if I didn’t express every emotion I am feeling in writing, whether it be sadness or rage. Thus, writing gives me the opportunity to come face-to-face with less favorable emotions I would be too hesitant to showcase in reality, but are a part of me nonetheless. I am able to re-construct an identity for myself based on the expression of my thoughts and ideas I see on paper, and subsequently gradually gain back the power to define myself on my own terms.

 

Whereas writing may allow me to better recognize a healthy dose of my own humanity through a wide range of emotions, the process itself provides a direct confrontation of a not-so-positive aspect of my personality, present in my life for as long as I can remember: my perfectionism. I have always held writing in high regard, considering it the most honest platform for communicating ones thoughts and feelings, free of any societal pressures or norms. Because I hold writing to such a high degree, bringing myself to engage with the act is often harder than I’d like it to be. Whether it is in academic assignments or free writing on my own time, the uncertainty that is a crucial part of my own writing process comes into direct conflict with my perfectionist tendencies. More often than not, my perfectionism results in extreme procrastination or a misleading sense of apathy toward an assignment. However, unlike in everyday interactions when I am able to avoid direct acknowledgement of my perfectionism, I have no choice but to stare it in the face when it manifests in an inability to put words on paper.  The writing process may come hard for me, but the very recognition of this signifies a better understanding of the tendencies I need to overcome in order to be the most authentic version of myself.

 

While writing offers me a clearer understanding of myself unbound by the perceptions of others, perhaps more importantly, it gives me the means to take control of this new understanding. Writing offers a platform to communicate my thoughts and emotions on my own terms. It supplies the measure of freedom and agency that is missing from the way in which I have defined myself based on others’ perceptions. As I write, I can reconsider my words, perhaps reclaiming them in the moment and replacing them with more nuanced expressions. In addition, writing provides a platform in which I can attempt to articulate my thoughts, even those tainted with incredible amounts of uncertainty. The attempt may not be perfect—something you can bet I won’t let go unnoticed—but the agency provides a sense of confidence in my own words unfamiliar in my everyday interactions.

 

Perhaps confidence is the beginning of the understanding as to why I write. After many years of defining myself in the eyes of others, I sacrificed a sense of my power in constructing my own identity. I reclaim the confidence to use that power through writing, gaining a clearer picture of the aspects of my own personality—the good and the bad—as well as a means through which to negotiate that revelation. The more I write, the clearer the picture becomes, and the more confident I become in practicing self-acceptance.  Having said this, I realize that no matter how much this confidence grows on paper, it is quite another matter to demonstrate this confidence in person—perhaps the greater problem at work. I can write as much as I want, but to truly define myself on my own terms rather than others’, I need to put this self-acceptance into practice outside of the ruled lines of my notebook.

 

Thus, I come to the following conclusion: while writing may not magically perfect my ability to construct my own identity rather than relying on the perceptions of others, it does create a safe space where I can navigate a path to re-defining myself on my own terms—no matter how uncertain or hazy that path may be. I am able to reclaim the power that was compromised when I defined myself in the eyes of others, and do so by writing, and then writing, and writing some more. I come face-to-face with emotions I once learned to suppress for fear of disapproval, and learn to embrace them for the healthy dose of humanity and imperfection they bring to my life. I am able to acknowledge the plague of perfectionism when the words don’t come on paper, and I am then prompted to confront these tendencies directly and with hope that I can embrace this aspect of my personality in a way that compliments my self-expression, rather than inhibits it. And most importantly, with practice comes confidence, and the more I write, the more confident I become in my own identity and the power I have to express myself in the world around me.

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