It's a perfectly valid question, really. Why write? And this question would be less than surprising, perhaps even expected, from any number of engineers, physicists, zoologists, etc. in the world. Would it surprise you to know that the girl asking it from this blog is a passionate author, actress, photographer, wanna-be-artist who is currently pursuing a degree in English with a minor in theater? Maybe not, but I'd guess the point of the question seems a little bit different now. Bear with me for just another moment, though, because hopefully I'm about to surprise you again.
I'm not asking this question to play the devil's advocate. I'm asking it to myself. I have written one novel and I'm currently on the third round of editing it in hopes of one day getting it published. Meanwhile, I frantically try to write any number of other novels - among them the sequel to the first novel (fantasy), a Christian allegory, and a dystopian. Not to mention dabbling in other ideas that I start and will probably never finish.
I came into college planning to get an English degree for the practicality of having a degree and getting to know the English language so that I could go on to pursue a career as a novelist. But as I plodded through my first semester, that dream faded - fast. Then, two days ago, I remembered why I wanted to write. Do you know what triggered that memory? I read.
Now hold on, back up. I'm a college student. So, yes, I read every single day. And while some of the stuff I read is excellent - Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, for instance - much of it is more boring than I can even begin to express.
I've never been huge on poetry. I want to be a novelist, not a poet. But most (if not all) early literature is written in the form of epic poetry. Or just poetry, but the point remains the same. My first semester English course is British Literature Survey I, which covers literature from Beowulf and the Anglo-Saxon laments through Christopher Smart and a little dabble into T.S. Eliot. What does almost all of that literature have in common? It's poetry. Which is fine, for a time, but a whole semester of it is driving me crazy.
And that's my only English class this semester. So the rest of the stuff I've been reading is history, or philosophy, or any other textbook. All far from novelistic in theme and style. And I have little time for pleasure reading in between frantically studying for tests and quizzes alongside all of the general homework I have.
Logically, I would just be hitting the point where I'm the most frantic and have the least time on my hands; finals are just around the corner. But I also just got back from Thanksgiving break, so I had a few precious moments to spare. (Now, remember, I'm an English major - so I read fast.) I read two novels over break. And yes, I'm in college, but my favorite literature is still adolescent and teen fiction, because it's written to be easy and engaging.
The first book I read was The House of Hades by Rick Riordan. I've been reading Riordan's books for a while now, so when the fourth book in the Heroes of Olympus series came out, I wanted to read it. And, as usual, the story was good. I love Riordan's adaptation of ancient Greek and Roman myth into a modern, engaging story. And it wet my whistle, so to speak, to get back into some easy, enjoyable reading.
On my way back to school from Thanksgiving, I spent Saturday night at my friend Sarah's house since I couldn't move back into my dorm until the next day. She happened to have Divergent, by Veronica Roth - a book my sister has been trying to get me to read for quite a while now. Initially, I wasn't into the idea. I have no idea why, because the book is brilliant, but it took my catching a glimpse of the trailer before I suddenly realized what I had been missing. So when I saw it on Sarah's shelf, I asked to borrow it. And she obliged.
It took me just a bit over twenty-four hours to finish reading Divergent. I'm sure it would have been less if I didn't have to attend classes on Monday. I had forgotten what it was like to enjoy an incredible story just for the sake of enjoying it. And I'm still chewing at the bit waiting to read Insurgent, but do you know what one of my very favorite things about reading Roth's novel was? One simple sentence at the beginning of the acknowledgements.
"Thank you, God, for your Son and for blessing me beyond comprehension."
Yes, the novel was excellent. And yes, I feel like I can relate to a lot of the emotions and personal struggles that the main character, Tris, deals with. But more than that, Veronica Roth managed to remind me that everything I have is a blessing from God. The fact that I am saved. The fact that I am alive. The fact that I can read.
And the fact that I can write.
So I guess it's safe to say I've been inspired. Or re-inspired, that is. Wish me luck as I embark on a new journey to rediscover my love of writing. I don't know which novel I'll start with. Maybe I'll finish editing finally, like my dad has been encouraging me to do for so long, and send The Legend of Harthore off to a publisher. Sure, it'll probably get tossed out a few hundred times, but I have to start somewhere, right? Maybe I'll start writing Legend's sequel The Legacy of Harthore. Or maybe I'll start on something totally new.
My acknowledgements if I had to give them right now?
Thank you, God, for sending your Son and for giving me the ability and passion to write.
Thank you, Dad, for pushing me for the last five and a half years to finish writing Legend.
Thank you to all of my friends and family for being so supportive.
And thank you, Veronica Roth, for reminding me why I write.
