Kilerkki
Even though you could probably go read our former blog if you really want to catch up on what we've been doing for the past two months, I'm going to post here. Because...well, because I'm supposed to be writing an English paper, and it's not coming very well. And this is an open venue for thrashing out my thoughts.
So. Yeah. I'm Kilerkki, and I'm a writer. Which is, interestingly enough, the topic I'm writing my paper on (being a writer, not being Kilerkki). The prompt is "Why?" and I've decided to write a rambling sort of personal essay exploring why I write. It's something I've always wondered about but never really taken the time to discover. I've been telling stories for as long as I can remember, and for the past eight years or so I've been constantly working on one unfinished novel or another. I actually have sold one short story which will be published...whenever the magazine decides to publish it. And I've been writing fanfiction recently, which should hone my skills for creating shorter, tighter plots. (Unfortunately, my original writing has suffered as a result; why slog through Tyglen's current angst or Tane's battles with the Dead when I can torture Hatake Kakashi instead? Well...apart from the fact that Tyglen and Tane are mine and very dear to my heart).
I'm also writing as Inuzuka Hana, Kiba's older sister, on the best Naruto RPG out there. And I think I've discovered one reason why I write, which is just that it's fun. Well, duh, you say. You're right. I've known this before, but I realize it more now, when I feel the adrenaline rush as I read Genma's "tag" to Hana and realize that I can write a reply. Hana isn't me; she doesn't act like me, doesn't talk like me, certainly doesn't think like me. And I like it that way, because it means that I can view the world through different eyes.
George Orwell says that writers write for four reasons: 1) Sheer egoism; 2) Aesthetic enthusiasm; 3) Historical purpose; and 4) Political purpose. I'm pretty sure that the last two reasons only vaguely affect me, because I don't really intend to change anything with my writing (at the moment), other than to entertain myself and others. And I'm not trying to "see things as they are, to find out true facts and store them up for the use of posterity," because I'm making things up, in an imaginary world populated by imaginary characters. Unless you say that portraying realistic human interaction reflects a historical purpose, in which case I'd say yeah, maybe you're right. (And maybe Hana's urge to bite people she dislikes isn't entirely realistic, but at least...okay, not going there.)
So it narrows down to sheer egoism and aesthetic enthusiasm. Which I will admit are probably my two primary motivators. I must feel that my stories are good and deserve to be written and shared, or I wouldn't write them. And the thrill I get when someone reads and reviews my stories--even if the review is "constructive criticism" and basically tells me that I need to rewrite from the beginning--is like nothing else. I'm bouncy with "review-high" for days. I confess, I think I'm a pretty good writer. Maybe an excellent one. And it's wonderful to share my stories with others and have them confirm my self-worth. Yes, it's selfish and shamelessly self-absorbed. But then, people are basically selfish, and it'd be hypocritical to pretend I'm not. I do think I'm also motivated by a strong degree of altruism, but I really do want to have my work and name known and loved.
Aesthetic enthusiasm is the other primary motivation, and it's very strong. I write many stories that will probably never see the light of day, and I spend hours on them which I could otherwise be devoting to useful things. I feel intense pleasure in putting words down on paper (or in typing on the keyboard; but somehow the experience of framing each letter on a fresh sheet of lined paper is simply richer, more evocative). I can labor over a sentence for an hour before going back and simply rewriting the whole section because I want it to be perfect, beautiful, appealing. Even if no one but me will ever read it. I try not to write "purple" prose; I find that lean, muscular prose is more appealing to me than flowery, turgid stuff. (In reading, I tend to skip over long descriptions of the scenery or the weather, even if it's beautifully written; I'm more interested in the people and the story.) But I still like to polish each sentence until it shines, to sharpen my verbs and enrich my adjectives and make each word count.
I'm not sure, though, that even in this extremely long-winded post I've really hit on the essence of what drives me to write. Because I can't stop. Some days I may have to force myself to work on a particular story, and some days maybe nothing will come, but at other times the flood gates open and the banks can't hold it back, and the story spills out of my fingertips almost too fast for me to capture it. After months of quiet fermentation in the back of my skull, a story may suddenly spring to life, flowing through my fingers to fill pages of computer text. On my way to French class one frigid morning, the idea and the opening scene for Prince of Dreams burst onto the stage of my mind. I spent the rest of the day blank-eyed and vague, my pen scribbling down story notes and my mind spinning a hundred light-years away. By bedtime that night, Prince Ronan of Auria and the angels of the Four Towers were as real to me as characters I’d known for years, and I had four and a half pages of text to prove it. I simply couldn't stop. You might as well ask me to stop eating or sleeping as to stop writing.
...Which is why this post is so long. I'll try to keep things shorter in the future, just so I don't completely overwhelm Phoenix (and the readers, if we have any!)
--Kilerkki
So. Yeah. I'm Kilerkki, and I'm a writer. Which is, interestingly enough, the topic I'm writing my paper on (being a writer, not being Kilerkki). The prompt is "Why?" and I've decided to write a rambling sort of personal essay exploring why I write. It's something I've always wondered about but never really taken the time to discover. I've been telling stories for as long as I can remember, and for the past eight years or so I've been constantly working on one unfinished novel or another. I actually have sold one short story which will be published...whenever the magazine decides to publish it. And I've been writing fanfiction recently, which should hone my skills for creating shorter, tighter plots. (Unfortunately, my original writing has suffered as a result; why slog through Tyglen's current angst or Tane's battles with the Dead when I can torture Hatake Kakashi instead? Well...apart from the fact that Tyglen and Tane are mine and very dear to my heart).
I'm also writing as Inuzuka Hana, Kiba's older sister, on the best Naruto RPG out there. And I think I've discovered one reason why I write, which is just that it's fun. Well, duh, you say. You're right. I've known this before, but I realize it more now, when I feel the adrenaline rush as I read Genma's "tag" to Hana and realize that I can write a reply. Hana isn't me; she doesn't act like me, doesn't talk like me, certainly doesn't think like me. And I like it that way, because it means that I can view the world through different eyes.
George Orwell says that writers write for four reasons: 1) Sheer egoism; 2) Aesthetic enthusiasm; 3) Historical purpose; and 4) Political purpose. I'm pretty sure that the last two reasons only vaguely affect me, because I don't really intend to change anything with my writing (at the moment), other than to entertain myself and others. And I'm not trying to "see things as they are, to find out true facts and store them up for the use of posterity," because I'm making things up, in an imaginary world populated by imaginary characters. Unless you say that portraying realistic human interaction reflects a historical purpose, in which case I'd say yeah, maybe you're right. (And maybe Hana's urge to bite people she dislikes isn't entirely realistic, but at least...okay, not going there.)
So it narrows down to sheer egoism and aesthetic enthusiasm. Which I will admit are probably my two primary motivators. I must feel that my stories are good and deserve to be written and shared, or I wouldn't write them. And the thrill I get when someone reads and reviews my stories--even if the review is "constructive criticism" and basically tells me that I need to rewrite from the beginning--is like nothing else. I'm bouncy with "review-high" for days. I confess, I think I'm a pretty good writer. Maybe an excellent one. And it's wonderful to share my stories with others and have them confirm my self-worth. Yes, it's selfish and shamelessly self-absorbed. But then, people are basically selfish, and it'd be hypocritical to pretend I'm not. I do think I'm also motivated by a strong degree of altruism, but I really do want to have my work and name known and loved.
Aesthetic enthusiasm is the other primary motivation, and it's very strong. I write many stories that will probably never see the light of day, and I spend hours on them which I could otherwise be devoting to useful things. I feel intense pleasure in putting words down on paper (or in typing on the keyboard; but somehow the experience of framing each letter on a fresh sheet of lined paper is simply richer, more evocative). I can labor over a sentence for an hour before going back and simply rewriting the whole section because I want it to be perfect, beautiful, appealing. Even if no one but me will ever read it. I try not to write "purple" prose; I find that lean, muscular prose is more appealing to me than flowery, turgid stuff. (In reading, I tend to skip over long descriptions of the scenery or the weather, even if it's beautifully written; I'm more interested in the people and the story.) But I still like to polish each sentence until it shines, to sharpen my verbs and enrich my adjectives and make each word count.
I'm not sure, though, that even in this extremely long-winded post I've really hit on the essence of what drives me to write. Because I can't stop. Some days I may have to force myself to work on a particular story, and some days maybe nothing will come, but at other times the flood gates open and the banks can't hold it back, and the story spills out of my fingertips almost too fast for me to capture it. After months of quiet fermentation in the back of my skull, a story may suddenly spring to life, flowing through my fingers to fill pages of computer text. On my way to French class one frigid morning, the idea and the opening scene for Prince of Dreams burst onto the stage of my mind. I spent the rest of the day blank-eyed and vague, my pen scribbling down story notes and my mind spinning a hundred light-years away. By bedtime that night, Prince Ronan of Auria and the angels of the Four Towers were as real to me as characters I’d known for years, and I had four and a half pages of text to prove it. I simply couldn't stop. You might as well ask me to stop eating or sleeping as to stop writing.
...Which is why this post is so long. I'll try to keep things shorter in the future, just so I don't completely overwhelm Phoenix (and the readers, if we have any!)
--Kilerkki