Writing is a beautiful obsession, and no matter how much you take a break, the urge inside you constantly takes notes of things somewhere. When the stacked words exceed the capacity, they spill onto the paper, even if you don’t want them to. In moments when I’ve been alone with myself for a long time, I question the why and how of this. The answer to the question is never singular, and new elements are added each time.
The only thing I’ve been doing consistently for over 10 years is jotting down notes in my journals every day, without exception. This largely satisfies the monster inside me, but amid the journal chaos, it’s often challenging to write pieces that can be shared with others. You can easily understand this from the writing traffic on the site. In these times when everything is shrinking, simplicity triumphs over nobility, falseness over reality, vulgarity over respect, and quantity over quality, the meaning of the word “share” is stuck in a portion of maximum 140 characters, usually consisting of thought summaries copied from each other.
However, sometimes a crisis, sometimes happiness or joy, sometimes a woman, and sometimes just the energy of the sun warming you from the inside unlocks the words’ lock, and they are poured back into writing. In the process it initiates, you write incessantly, pouring out all the stones from under your skirt. In these moments when the stubbornness of the pen sets the ink accumulated in bottles free, I feel that I have closed the gap too much, and sometimes I feel that I have exceeded the dose.
I don’t know if you’ve ever thought about why we write, but whether you make temporary shots in single-dose platforms like Facebook or Twitter or write pages without getting tired; take a look at Orhan Pamuk’s emotional Nobel Prize speech. Doesn’t at least one or all of the reasons he listed feel familiar to you?
I write because it comes from within!
I write because I can’t do a normal job like others.
I write so that books are written like mine, so I can read them.
I write because I’m very angry with all of you.
I write because I enjoy sitting in a room all day and writing.
I write because I can only tolerate reality by changing it.
I write about how we, the others, all of us, lived and are living in Istanbul, Turkey, so that the whole world knows.
I write because I love the smell of paper, pen, and ink.
I write because I believe in literature, the art of the novel, more than anything else.
I write because it’s a habit and a passion.
I write because I’m afraid of being forgotten.
I write because I like the fame and attention it brings.
I write to be alone.
I write because I’m very angry with everyone, all of you.
I write because I like being read.
I write to finish this novel, this article, this page I started.
I write because everyone expects this from me.
I write because I believe in the immortality of libraries and the way my books stand on the shelves like a child.
I write because life, the world, everything is unbelievably beautiful and surprising.
I write because it’s enjoyable to put all the beauty and richness of life into words.
I write not to tell stories but to create stories.
I write because there seems to be a place to go, and I can’t seem to get there, just like in a dream, to get rid of the feeling.
I write because I can’t be happy somehow.
I write to be happy.Orhan Pamuk