I Write

I write because I don’t talk — I don’t speak. My mouth is usually closed when it should probably be open more. At least when my mouth is open, it’s not emitting exactly what I would prefer. If it were up to me, I would tell everyone, everywhere I go, everything I’m thinking exactly when I think it. I would like to be more like Murphy Brown or Karen Walker. But ONLY if I knew no one would be hurt or angered by what I have to say. If I thought for a second that anything that comes out of my mouth would be hurtful to someone, even tangentially, I would not say it. And so, I don’t. There’s a whirling, swirling mass of crap in my head that usually gets repressed, compressed into a tiny turd. Well, there are so many tiny turds in my brain from so much repression, it just all has to come out somehow.

I write because my brain sometimes moves twice as fast and my mouth so I find writing a more deliberative way of communicating. It’s easier to lay out my thoughts in an organized fashion than it is to try to explain something or tell a story out loud, on the fly. It’s too bad I couldn’t plan everything I want to say in one day and pre-write little speeches so that I will appear to be the most eloquent person in the room at any given time. That would be awesome. Though, in reality, I don’t aspire to eloquence, I would like to be well spoken, better than I may be now.

I write because I like thinking that I’m speaking to the ultimate confidant. I can say anything in any old way (spelling errors, poor composition, pre-edited) and my ultimate confidant understands everything I mean. Writing is cathartic and very therapeutic! There isn’t a human in the world with the patience of a blank electronic document or the stamina of a blinking cursor.

I write because I think it’s cool! I’m reminded of all the great writers who went ahead of me and I feel like I’m a little bit of a protégé by writing after them. It’s like being in a special club where those who aren’t in it are slightly awed by those who are — oh, you write! Stuck way back in the back of my head is this romantic image of the modern writer. It’s the guy or girl who spends the majority of their day in the coffee shop tapping away at their laptop occasionally sipping something hot and frothy. Where they then spend the rest of their day taking the dog to the dog park, or browsing casually through the Central Market, or having three martini lunches at Sullivan’s (or somewhere less swanky). Romantic!

I write because when I’m trying to kill time at work (or distract myself completely) I can open a Word document or a new Journal entry and tap away — all the while looking like I’m a happy, productive employee. It’s not so obvious as playing solitaire or surfing the internet. So writing is a legitimate-looking way to “escape” work.

I write because my mission includes leaving the world an intellectual legacy and it’s looking less and less likely to happen in the field of research. I’m getting such a late freakin’ start to my real life career (and my real life) that I’m beginning to doubt what kind of legacy I can leave in physics. But there’s always writing! Writing journals, writing short stories, writing emails, it’s all good and all legacy-worthy.

I write because it exercises my wrists, and I think my wrists and hands are some of the sexiest parts of my body.

I write because I like the sound of an active keyboard when someone who knows how to type is really hammering away. It’s the sound of unbridled productivity — yippeee!

I write because I am practicing my typing and my spelling.