Explanation on Writing

Disclaimer: This post was originally written on 8 October 2018. Thoughts and feelings expressed may no longer be accurate.

“Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout with some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand.” - George Orwell

At the time of writing this post, I have not published my first book yet, but am currently under the process of editing and exacting it before finding the right editor and publisher. The book is the epitome of George Orwell’s belief. Every novel I have ever started has eaten up some part of my sanity, running in my mind on a constant loop until I finally get all that I want to say out on paper.

For my first completed novel, it all started when my family and I took a trip to the United Kingdom and Ireland. It was an experience that I will never forget and will always be thankful for.

I had never been outside of the United States before that trip, so going to another country and experiencing the different cultures, peoples and the immense history was fascinating for me. When we went to Stonehenge, there was a Druid ceremony taking place and - as always when I see something fascinating - a story popped into my mind. I spent the rest of the trip wide eyed at each sight, while sleeping on the bus in between stops so that at night I could stay up in our hotel rooms and write. Unfortunately I only made it a chapter and a half into my novel before we came back from the U.K. and I lost all time for my writing. It still ate at me every time I signed into my google docs, but there were other stories that were further along that I felt obligated to finish. It wouldn’t be until this past summer that I would sit down and finish the work I had started.

The only reason I was able to finish was because I knew that if I didn’t complete at least one work before heading off to college I would never finish any. With my aspirations set on joining the FBI, writing is not a priority of mine, but simply only a past time. I knew that once I got to school I would be focused on my studies and not on writing a novel. So every night, from eight pm to four am I would write until my brain went fuzzy. Then I would go to sleep and wake up again at ten, I would get any work or chores that needed to be done completed, then as soon as I got home I would settle in for a full night of writing. I would type until I couldn’t formulate coherent sentences.

This dedication wasn’t because I wanted to stay up late over my summer break, no it was because I had had this story playing inside of my mind for four years. It nagged at me and screamed for me to let it out of my head, and those nights in front of my computer with sheets of notes on my characters or my settings sprawled out around me were like a mother’s hours of labor.

Like Orwell says, writing a book is exhausting and the only real cause is this strange, undeniable draw from something inside your mind to write. I could never explain it to someone who doesn’t write, but if I were to try I would compare it to a demon as well. You feel their hand pressing against the forefront of your mind as first, then you feel their toes in the back of your skull, then the other foot on the right, and their other hand on the left. It’s whole body takes over your mind until it forces it’s thoughts through you and you find yourself writing everything that it wants you to say.

Now maybe "demon" isn’t the right word, because I could never deem literature as a curse, but a story or idea definitely possess you when you write. So maybe instead of a demon, I’d call it love. An undeniable passion that you are driven to give up your life and well-being for so that it can thrive? Yes. I’ll call it love.