Meaningless Meanderings

For the sake of. . .

If you met me seven years ago and asked why I write, I would have explained that I chose to. At that time, writing was more than just a mandatory assignment for class: it was a way of life. Writing was a hobby, a way of escaping from the toil of homework, of research, and a way to let my mind wander to places that I believed to be better than where I was. I wrote for information, whether to keep for later reference or to share with others. I wrote for fun, weaving tales and invoking emotions.

I wrote for the sake of writing.

I read for much of the same reasons. It may have been a way to escape, and it surely was a way to gain knowledge, but it was something more. The idea that someone has placed a part of themselves within their work, to share that part of their very being with the world of readers, amazed me. Reading was a way of looking into someone's life and thoughts without knowing them. It made the work worth reading, solely for the sake of reading.

Over the years, things have changed. The introduction of strict deadlines, less freedom, stylistic and subject confines have removed that option from my life. My writing is now for a singled-out audience of teachers, students, or even the citizens of a small area, restricting my writing even further.

I feel as though this activity, something I had done to express myself, has lost a part of its meaning. I don't express myself in the manner I once did, and instead the ideas and styles of others are now prominent in my writing.

In a way, it is amazing how something so small can alter someone so greatly. Introducing topics to a writer may close off certain doors of subject matter, restraining them from “dabbling” into something that they have interest in. Enforcing a genre is akin to placing a prison wall around them. Even though it is possible to cross genres, it can be difficult to dig out of the rut that is created from the monotony. Eventually, the writer is forced to question if the writing is their own, or someone else's. This is the problem I now face.

So, is this writing actually my own? Are the words you see actually my voice, or the voices of those around me? Am I writing for the sake of writing, or just to keep a superior at bay?

Look to the writer's around you and within you, and ask yourself: “Why do they write?” Then wonder how many of them write for writing's sake.