Why I Write
By Erin Deborah Waks
Someone asked me recently if I felt I was on the right career path. That, when hearing my reasons for wanting to be a writer, it sounded a lot like what I’d actually like to do is work in the mental health industry, or do something more political and less ‘surface-level’ (note, these are not my words). It’s funny, I’m not normally questioned on why I want to be a writer by anyone who has read even a sentence of my prose.
I’m on a relatively slow path towards building my dream job, writing my own Carrie Bradshaw-style column and editing a polished, sexy, stylish magazine. It’s the path for me, and (rightly so) one that takes time to learn.
But I’m protective of my love of writing. Why?
Well. It’s a jarring thing for a woman to say perhaps but I am, quite simply, good at it. And not in the way I was a ‘good’ student, in that I could memorise things or work hard enough to excel at almost any subject at most subjects at school. I am simply a good writer. I see things in a way that not everyone does and, even if they do, I can write about them in a way others couldn’t.
I love words, writing, because I think good journalism and good books can be a source of comfort, guidance and understanding. When I’ve read good things, it’s sparked an idea in me. I want to write good things. I hope they spark ideas in others.
But also because I am selfish. Because it is fun for me to produce prose from merely my own thoughts, to pass the time in a way I find at once aesthetic and meaningful.
Because if I have to really think about people I look up to, who I want to be like in my work, it’s almost always writers. Nora Ephron, Joan Didion, Deborah Levy, yes, but also Zadie Smith, Dolly Alderton, Monica Ali, Lena Dunham. The list goes on.
Because it is beautiful. The coffee sipped while aimlessly drafting as much as the neat cursive in which I write until the point at which I’ve cracked the code, found the golden thread - then my writing is sloppy, large, messy, my hand struggling to keep up with my thoughts.
Because it is natural to me. Instinctual, even. Birthday reflections every year, writing letters to loved ones, keeping a journal; these things come to me as easily as a drive for sex, for sleep, for chocolate. A fully formed piece of writing is the epitome of satisfaction for my type-A mind.
Because it’s the one thing I have in my life that is entirely my own. Sure, I comment on things and phrases and observations I often make of others, but the ideas I put down on paper come from my own thoughts, and all I need is a pen and paper - and myself.
And because it is, I feel, what makes me special. I will never be the best woman in the world, nor will I be the best friend, daughter, partner, mother, sister. I will never be the best painter, artist, singer, musician, or reader (although, granted, I’d give that one a good try). None of these things concern me. I will never even be the best writer.
But, somehow, that doesn’t seem to stop me from writing anyway. And loving every second of it.
