January 6, 2009 § 1 Comment
E textinho legal achado no http://lovebot.tumblr.com (Looooove this)
“A question we’ve been asked before in tones that vary from “you’ll never get anywhere that way” to “what is the purpose of all life?” Why write? A hard question to answer, but we’ll try and break the surface…
We write because of laughing devils and gracefully falling angels.
Because if we didn’t, things would end up broken.
Because two words on a paper can change entirely how a person views life.
Because all our thoughts are one million different stories put together.
We write because sometimes, seeing isn’t enough.
Because the first draft isn’t enough.
Because paper is our canvas, the pen our paintbrush.
Together, we create something amazing.
We write because we love finding the rules of English then breaking them with the flick of the wrists.
Because we love words, their spellings, even the shapes they make on the paper or in your mind.
Because we love to fold the metaphors on top of one annother until we’re not sure what we’re talking about.
Because we control ink, plots, lives—or try to.
WE write because spilled ink means something but words mean nothing at all.
Because there’s a message hidden between the lines.
Because when you grasp a pen you can be anywhere.
Because the imprint of your body on the lawn won’t be there for long.
We write because when we were younger some of us were told we wouldn’t be able to speak
Because three pages and four deaths into our first stories, our second grade teacher said “You can’t read something like that in elementary school.”
Because writing is the only thing we have complete control of, while at the same time, no control.
Because writing keeps us grounded, keeps us sane, even when driving us insane.
Because writing is something we can call out own when worry flows through our veins like life juice.
WE write because it is the only time we can be ourselves.
Because we life the feel of typing keys, because our fingers itch.
Because the blaze of ideas burns our finger tips.
Because the way his fingers fondle the piano keys makes us jealous.
Because when we write, we don’t have to be ourselves.
We write because Barnes ‘n’ Noble is our second home and we want to give back
Because we don’t want to be famous, we will be famous.
We write to get through the winding, repetitive days.
Because we see familiar faces every day and through our eyes they are characters in a book.
Because we want to create characters we could only hope to encounter in reality.
We write when we have questions, when we know answers.
And we write about darkness when the light get too bright.
We write from different beginnings and moments:
From since we can remember
From the events of September 11th, after hearing powerful messages of hope and courage
From a time of abuse and destruction when all we could do was write.
From a time of stories read to us by parents, teachers
From the summer we were twelve in NEw Jersey when we picked up the groove and recorded our thoughts.
From the time we wrote post-it pad flip book movies we sold for 50 cents
From the time we started imagining the character going down another way on the crossroad—if she didn’t learn the lesson the first time, then what happened?
We’ve written since we can remember, but not for the reasons we do now.
Then if was for things we wanted, felt, needed
Now it’s more complex, deeper; not it’s out in public,
Criticized by our own inner demons, up for the kill,
Expectations, revisions; more complex; deeper
Because anything less is unacceptable.
And now when we write we sit by the river in our secret spot
Everything we see is in a new perspective
Our fingers ache with ideas
Our minds implore every thought
To tell people we’ve been there
To evaporate the warm desperation sitting on our chests
To smear lipstick across the mirror, to press our lips against paper airplanes
We write because we feel the urge of our pen wanting to touch paper
Because how else to touch someone’s heart?
Because language is a gift.
Because writing is freedom.
This was complied from the writings of me and my classmates in my Creative Nonfiction class in 2005. We were all between the ages of 15 and 17.”