I’ve most likely covered this at times in other blogs. I
might have even written something with the same title, though likely not on
this scale or with the level of introspection I’m going to put into these posts.
The reason I often come back to this topic is that it is often on my mind. As
a writer, I frequently receive comments, read articles, or simply have a
thought that prompts me to think about this topic. The answer isn’t always
exactly the same, while the origin story of my writing is the same, the reasons
or the circumstances for that period of time might lead me to respond
differently. This series on “Why I Write” will take the reader from my origin
story through a myriad of "reasons" I write to a list of items I prefer to use when I write. Some of those reasons will be
recurring and others will be reasons I’ve landed on in the moment or recent history, and a few might have been impactful for a specific time in my life. Mostly I want to
connect with the reader in a way that prompts them to consider why they write
or perhaps help them experience writing differently.
Origins of a Writer
I write because I can’t draw. That statement is anathema to
a lot of people. It comes across as relatively strong and sure and somewhat dismissive. You’re reading it but let me be clear I’m saying it in a way
that should convey total confidence in you that I mean what I say. I didn’t
grow up dreaming about being a writer. I loved to read, but I only fell on
writing because I failed time and again at drawing. I grew up dreaming about
being a comic book artist.
From the time I could mow a lawn, wash a car, and have a
paper route; I read comic books. My mom bought my brother and me comics earlier which
started my addiction to them. But she couldn’t afford it very often, so it was
more of a luxury. When I was ten or eleven, I began doing small extra chores
for money. Mowing our massive front and back yard for five dollars, washing the
car for three dollars, I got a paper route that paid something like forty-five
dollars a month. There were a lot of things I bought: baseball and basketball
cards, G.I. Joes, gum and candy, but comic books were at the top of the list.
I grew up in what I still consider to be the comic book
revival. Comics fell off in the 80’s some in quality outside of books like Dark Knight and Watchmen there was a lot of garbage coming from the DC and Marvel.
That combined with how poorly artists were paid for their work caused a major
move in the comic book industry right at the time I was able to start buying
comics with my own money. In the 90’s well-known artists left DC and Marvel and
started their own studios. Image comics was the collective these studios worked
under, and I fell in love with nearly every release Image put out in their
early days.
Artists like Jim Lee, Todd McFarlane, Marc Silvestri, and
Whilce Portracio left major publications, to create new heroes and villains
with new artwork and coloring. Spawn,
WildC.A.T.s, Cyberforce, and Wetworks along
with numerous other titles were born. Unbeknownst to me, they brought with them
one of the best comic book writers of all time, Chris Claremont. I didn’t care
about that, all I cared about was the art.
With a great burning desire I invested every leftover cent I
had in sketchbooks, mechanical pencils, woodcase pencils, even colored pencils
all in a vain attempt to create my own comic book. I checked out every book on
drawing the library had (this was pre-internet so the library was a big part of
my childhood) and began trying to teach myself how to draw. I went through
hundreds of pages of dogs, cars, dinosaurs, sharks, and other random sketchable
objects. Weeks turned into months and I flipped through sketchbooks, my heart sank
as I turned each page. There was no improvement. I could sketch rough animals,
was slightly better at buildings and cars, but when it came to people I was
horrendous. There was no other way to put it, I couldn’t draw a person to save
my life. If I couldn’t draw people, there was no way I could create my own
comic book.
In a fit of anger and sadness, I carried all of the
sketchbooks to the trash and tossed them in. Took the leftovers and gave them
to my brother. Returned the books on drawing and on a whim checked out Fellowship of the Ring. I barricaded
myself in my room and came out when I was done with the series. A new light in
my eyes. I went from a fantasy world of comic books to a fantasy world of
words. Characters leaped off the page, the thousands of hours of reading comics and
attempting to draw had only honed my already well-developed imagination; and
they enabled me to see every person, place, and thing in Middle Earth as if I
was standing right there.
My brother had taken up the pencils and expanded to paints
and other mediums. Where I failed at art, he flourished. Inside I was jealous
and a bit angry, but he was my best friend and after a while I simply let it
go. Art slowly faded as I finished more and more books, before long I was
writing, albeit poorly. Derivative stories of superheroes or fantasy wizards
and warriors. My brother and I began talking about collaborating on our own
comic book. I’d write it and he’d illustrate it. We never did anything beyond a
few panels; it is something I still wish we’d accomplished.
My writing overflowed in nearly every aspect of my life. I
had always loved essays and reports, not I craved them. I read voraciously
throughout junior high and high school and wrote pages upon pages. Everything
from fantasy to reports on small battles in World War II, to poetry, and even a
few terrible rap lyrics. I wrote everything by hand until my junior year of
high school when I bought an electric typewriter. I’d write by hand when I was
out, then take over on the typewriter when I got home. I’d use a three-hole punch
and put the typed pages in a binder with the handwritten pages.
Looking back on my origin story, I’m no longer sad and angry
about not being able to draw. I found a different medium of creation and
expression. Writing is a part of me, it’s integral to who I am and who I’ve
become. It’s grown and changed with me as time has gone on. I went from
thinking of it mostly as a tool that helped me through school and then, later on, to secure work and now I consider it something of a trusted companion.
Writing is something that transcends the simple task of
putting pen to paper. It’s more than arranging letters into words and words
into sentences. For me it’s become a way to put myself into the very stories
and poems I write. I leave part of myself in every piece. It’s not a conscious
decision I make, it just ends up that way. What I write is important to me and
so I take pride in it, but I also understand that what I write MIGHT be
important to others. I just hope that others who read my pieces take away
something from it, and maybe they get to know me a little bit in the process
too.
