On Purpose

Today, I'd like to talk about purpose. That is, why do writers write? Why does anyone do anything, actually? Should our actions profit ourselves or help others, teach or entertain?

I began mulling over these questions on Monday, when my World History/Humanities teacher presented a video in class. It was interview of a surgeon at Johns Hopkins who'd helped in an Iraq vet's recent double arm transplant.

As the interviewed doctor spoke, his knowledge and experience were obvious. But what moved me was the surgery's effects. Though incredibly expensive and rare, the procedure was completely life-altering: it was allowing a man's life back. I was struck by how worthy this doctor's work was. In fact, I was so impressed, I almost wanted to become a surgeon myself for a second - before remembering I feel ill at the sight of blood.

Besides, I'm a writer, I insisted to myself. But that introduced another question: What's my purpose? My work certainly isn't saving lives - so why do I write? Why should I, when my chances of financial and critical success are so low? I'm not certain of being published, let alone being remembered or making an impact. Writing can only result in personal sleep loss and emotional strain. So why should I write, when I could become a lawyer or scientist or professor?

It may have occurred to you, if you're not a writer, that writing is easier than pursuing those other careers. Anyone can tell a story, but earning the knowledge and experience to become a lawyer/scientist/professor requires a huge amount of hard work and determination. And lots of student loans. Yet for whatever reason, I often feel that any profession must be happier than writing.

As much I love to write, I'm afraid to. I doubt my own abilities. Often I don't write for days/weeks and subsequently feel as useless as a sea sponge. (No offense to sea sponges.) Anyway: the fact is, writing is hardly ever rewarding. It's only when the finished product lies before me that I gain any satisfaction from it; first and second drafts are usually hell. My stress may be a result of my sky-high self-expectations, or the difficult topics I write about.

Yet no matter how bleak my outlook, I can't give up. I write for a purpose - to express to others how I view the world - and that drives me. I need to share my personal views and experiences with others, by necessity in an entertaining way. Plus, I love language. I love the rush of satisfaction when my words reflect my meaning, when the right words arrive. I love to imagine my characters and their adventures, I love the endless possibilities each new draft presents. Writing excites me, engages me, allows me to express myself more truly than speech. I write for a purpose - a fact which I need to remind myself of more often. Otherwise, I'll become lost in hopeless self-criticism, forgetting why I've set on such an insane mission in the first place.

Hmm. Maybe I'll have to reread this post next week, by which time I'll have forgotten my sense of purpose again.