For The Love of....WRITING Pt.2
The previos post, For The Love of Writing, was a letter written to me about an article I had written. For the life of me, I couldn't find the article to post. But I found it...finally. So here goes.
The Purpose
For a while I have been IMing people. Most of them are aspiring writers like me. Tonight I came to the conclusion that maybe, just maybe I am in a different league than some of them. Not because of the figure of my bonus or because of the record of my annual sales. I am in a different league because…I truly love what I am attempting to do. I thrive for what I do. I don’t do it because I want to see my name in print or because I can’t wait to sign my John Hancock to the back of that advance check. I do it because it makes me who I am. For as long as I can remember I have always had a way of getting people to understand. Getting them to understand that they aren’t alone in the struggle. Someone understands them and what they go through. It’s a way of connecting with them through my words.
I had a conversation tonight with one of my closest friends. For the first time since I have been writing, I felt like someone felt about writing the way I did. My viewpoints and statements on the state of writing were agreed upon. We spoke on the lack of knowledge of some authors, the lack of respect for the craft of literature, the lack of knowledge on what they write about. There are a great many writers who are making six figure salaries, but that’s their purpose; those six figures. What about writing because you want to reach a person on the opposite side of the world in another time zone. What about wanting someone to relate to and to touch. No one writes to be heard anymore. Like my friend said, “Anyone can write a story. It’s what’s in that story that makes it memorable.” We as authors have the power to change the way things are done, the way feelings are felt and the way situations are handled. No one understands or has a purpose.
Langston Hughes, Richard Wright, and Maya Angelou all wrote to make a statement, to heal and to touch their audience. During the Harlem Renaissance, authors wrote on the sate of the black community, where it was, where it’s been and their hopes for where it was going. They portrayed a message in everything they did and sought out to do. Where is that? Why don’t we as authors make that same effort to teach and help? Langston Hughes wrote Cross, a poem where his white father died in the big house and his black mother died in the shack. He question where he will die since he is neither white nor black. Richard Wright wrote Black Boy, his autobiography on growing up during the days of racial tension and his life due to his father’s abandonment and his mother’s illness. Maya Angelou wrote And Still I Rise, her message letting the world know that nothing will break her spirits. They did all this for a reason. To convey a message.
Writing is an art. A craft. Painters paint, not because they like paintbrushes but because what they paint makes a difference. Each painting has a meaning. Why can’t books? Why can’t authors write because what they write will touch someone? Or write because someone will realize they aren’t alone in this thing we call a world. Every person deserves a confidant, a friend. I say; where ink touches paper, attempt to touch a person. Make that effort to comfort, appease or uplift. The writers before us did. What’s our reason? What’s our purpose?
The Purpose
For a while I have been IMing people. Most of them are aspiring writers like me. Tonight I came to the conclusion that maybe, just maybe I am in a different league than some of them. Not because of the figure of my bonus or because of the record of my annual sales. I am in a different league because…I truly love what I am attempting to do. I thrive for what I do. I don’t do it because I want to see my name in print or because I can’t wait to sign my John Hancock to the back of that advance check. I do it because it makes me who I am. For as long as I can remember I have always had a way of getting people to understand. Getting them to understand that they aren’t alone in the struggle. Someone understands them and what they go through. It’s a way of connecting with them through my words.
I had a conversation tonight with one of my closest friends. For the first time since I have been writing, I felt like someone felt about writing the way I did. My viewpoints and statements on the state of writing were agreed upon. We spoke on the lack of knowledge of some authors, the lack of respect for the craft of literature, the lack of knowledge on what they write about. There are a great many writers who are making six figure salaries, but that’s their purpose; those six figures. What about writing because you want to reach a person on the opposite side of the world in another time zone. What about wanting someone to relate to and to touch. No one writes to be heard anymore. Like my friend said, “Anyone can write a story. It’s what’s in that story that makes it memorable.” We as authors have the power to change the way things are done, the way feelings are felt and the way situations are handled. No one understands or has a purpose.
Langston Hughes, Richard Wright, and Maya Angelou all wrote to make a statement, to heal and to touch their audience. During the Harlem Renaissance, authors wrote on the sate of the black community, where it was, where it’s been and their hopes for where it was going. They portrayed a message in everything they did and sought out to do. Where is that? Why don’t we as authors make that same effort to teach and help? Langston Hughes wrote Cross, a poem where his white father died in the big house and his black mother died in the shack. He question where he will die since he is neither white nor black. Richard Wright wrote Black Boy, his autobiography on growing up during the days of racial tension and his life due to his father’s abandonment and his mother’s illness. Maya Angelou wrote And Still I Rise, her message letting the world know that nothing will break her spirits. They did all this for a reason. To convey a message.
Writing is an art. A craft. Painters paint, not because they like paintbrushes but because what they paint makes a difference. Each painting has a meaning. Why can’t books? Why can’t authors write because what they write will touch someone? Or write because someone will realize they aren’t alone in this thing we call a world. Every person deserves a confidant, a friend. I say; where ink touches paper, attempt to touch a person. Make that effort to comfort, appease or uplift. The writers before us did. What’s our reason? What’s our purpose?
posted by Tiyatti Speight | 12/10/2005 07:11:00 PM
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