As most of you know, or I’ve most of you pestered into knowing; I love to write. Since I was 4 years old I’ve been writing; little fact books, stories, poems, novels, comics, you name it I wrote it. So recently, I thought I’d pick up Stephen King’s On Writing to keep me company over tea at lunch. So long story made short, it has got me thinking about writing. I’ve never been the kind of guy to hammer out three or four stories a night and seventy novels a year and to have my picture up in the library for everyone to see because I won ever competition going. So I had to ask myself, “why do I write?” and probably the strangest, “What does it mean to me?”
If you want me to open up, the only reason I got seriously into writing was because it was something I was good at. I mean, as long as my memory stretches back, I was always writing or creating something. Whenever it was a comic strip about a secret agent cat, or a book about facts or even a city made of paper, I was always trying to express and show myself off in some shape or form. Back in primary school you had GAA players, gamers, soccer players, the academics, funny guys and me shoved at the back of class with nothing really to own as my own. I was average, plain and simple. Destined to get normal grades and probably never go on to be something huge. Then in sixth class, when I was growing tired of the cartoons I was drawing and paper chains, I wrote a short story. The title sticks out in memory, “30 Seconds” , so I wrote about someone from a bomb disposal team who is too cocky for his own good. Whatever happened happened and I my next title was about someone leaving. That was all I got, put my own spin on it. So my brain got in gear and before I knew it I wrote about someone running away from a funeral part where he confides in his uncle about how he doesn’t understand funerals and how much he misses his grandmother. The teacher wrote a nice review and took me aside where he politely asked me to, “never give up writing, it’s your talent”
Feeling a sense of purpose I began churning out stories and tales throughout my summer of treasure hunts and heroes fighting villains on strange planets. As secondary school dawned I remained adamant I wanted to be a writer. So the stories came in drips and drabs. When asked to write for my first year English teacher a half a page story, I wrote about Death filling in for Mother Nature. Whatever happened with the stories, happened and I felt happy. There was a corner of the world I could call my own and feel good about myself. I was always the guy being laughed at in PE because he was too slow or always falling over. I would nearly always be getting the C grades and told by my teacher that “I’m a C student, don’t expect anything higher” but by writing, I felt huge, like I could take on the world. Who needed hurling or football? I had all the entertainment I needed creating stories and comic strips with my lunch time.
I’m 19 now, and supposed to be growing up and being mature about things. On nights out I’m expected to go off “pulling girls” but the voice inside me, hanging around will always have me pestered, “there’s a story in this about a nightclub where a person is uncomfortable and people’s thoughts… ” or even when I’m after being slapped in the face with disappointment, I’ll subtly say, “this will make some story some day!” I guess the creative bug to spot and see stories will never leave me.
In some weird way though, writing means a lot more to me than just thinking up ideas too and putting them down on a page. Personally speaking, it is my own was of self-expression, to broadcast how I think and thought to people and to get my ideas and views on the world. Personally speaking, that’s what I believe art is; self-expression, but that’s a piece for another day and time.
Overall, writing and creating is something which is as ingrained into me as waking up in the morning. Not a day goes by where I don’t think I’ve solved what my magnum opus will be, or whatnot. So until the day I have to start work and get a real job, I’ll still write and hammer away, you’ll never know what could happen.