I want to write

by Nikolas Campos

I want to write. I want to write something. Anything. Oh God, can you help me? I’m stuck and I want to move. I want to write. Something. Just one idea, one sentence, a word to spark inspiration. I need to write. I can’t stop thinking about how much I have to. Books, passages, short stories, poems; can’t I find something? People, cars, technology, congress or politics, governments and nations, Earth and space; there has to be something. I want to write, plain and simple. I want to put ink on paper, push graphite into wood; text swinging in rhythms, metaphors felt in grooves. Something, anything! God, let the words fill my heart and pour out through my fingers. Keep my mouth closed and my eyes fixed on letters. I just want to write!

Wait. Just wait… maybe this points to something else. I can’t force anything to find its way with an expectation of not crashing. Crash... action. Sparks need action and action needs an idea. An idea built-up from passion. If I skip the passion where will I be with only action? I need to dive deeper into the root of it. Why do I want to write? I don’t need to write to survive; I only need food, water and shelter for that. Nor do I need it to breathe, walk or go about my day. It’s really something I do to pass time. So it’s a hobby? Or is it a distraction? I mean, it is something I do to pass the time, when I idly sit pondering on thoughts too provoking for a Thursday morning. If that is the intention of why I want to write, would it not be a distraction, then? Is the definition of distraction not to divert one’s attention from the present? What is it that has me bothered that I do not want to tend to current events and would rather shut myself out through my writing? Very interesting. So I write so that I can avoid the questions I do not want to answer. Yet I like it though. I like to write because it serves as an outlet for expression.

So if it’s not about avoiding answers… what is it then? It’s like a train of emotions tunneling through my mind finding its exit on the piece of paper in front of me. I’ve heard some people refer to writing as “an escape”, but I find the opposite to be true; it’s a vacation. It’s a four-day trip to the Bahamas, a two-day visit to Manhattan, a 3-hour flight to Mexico City; it’s a short and sweet getaway to refuel and reset.

A-ha! Now we’re getting somewhere. “Getaway”, “refuel and reset”? There it is, the truth is in the details, I don’t even have to read between the lines! This is why I write. It lets me figure things out, put two and two together, and leave the writer’s room feeling like a million bucks. Writing to me is a rest stop on the road trip to Miami. It’s a refueling station that gets me to the next town. It was never about writing for the sake of writing, maybe it was about writing to recenter myself and energize; or writing to paint out my frustrations or simply writing to take into account of how beautiful a day like today is. Whatever the case, I believe writing can be whatever it needs to be. A narrative tale, a historical account, or a poem on life, or lack thereof; a research paper on fruit flies, or a fictional journal pertaining to a life of superheroes.

I understand writing.

I understand why I want to write.