A friend of mine was writing her personal statement for her MFA applications. They are asking her: Why do you want to come to our school? What are you like? Why do you want to be a writer?
I was a little horrified by the application and am very sympathetic for her plight.
It made me kind of think why I spend so much of my time writing. For my friend, it is easy.
“I like writers. I like to be around other writers. And writing is something I think I am best at.”
I thought about that. I figured that none of these reasons apply to me. Other writers make me edgy. Most of them a big weirdos. They have funny habits and they talk funny, like a little Roman slave-scribe is following them everywhere writing down every word they utter.
Writing also makes me jittery. My heart beats irregularly whenever I had to write. My mind gets untethered and it floats away from me. I don’t feel like myself; it is as if a part of me has gone out of town and I am running across the highway to the cabin, trying the chase it back.
I really hate writing.
So, why am I doing this?
I was wandering in the inside of Eglington station, looking at the discount bookstore that sold out-of-date computer books and failed romance novels. People were passing by, off to somewhere.
I didn’t have anywhere to go.
Why don’t I have anywhere to go? I am not sure what I am doing here in the City.
I had to write this down. And then I realized everything down. I write so I can justify to myself that I do exist and why that is so. It is so because I am telling myself so.
So, I write. Otherwise, I won’t be around and this page won’t be here.