So I was flipping through my WordPress Reader in a homework break, and I came across this wonderful thing:
Why I write.
And it instantly took me back to several things; namely, why I read. I had managed to sum it up into one sentence several weeks ago, or rather, how I view reading. Here it goes:
Books do not give knowledge but instead increased complexity in the way I view the world.
I can put it in a lot more words than that too. Here goes some more letters, consonants, vowels, on the subject:
I read because it’s one of the first things I took on as something I really loved, and it stuck. I loved it then, and I love it now.
I read because it makes me feel connected to other people out there; the writers, other readers, distant past forms of myself.
I read because it’s a form of creating myself (another story– finding myself in my marginalia).
And then, for whatever (seemingly odd, crazy, irrational) reason, I write about it.
I write because there seems to be some solidarity about it.
I write because it feels concrete, even when it’s totally not.
I write because I’m an egocentric, anthropocentric human being who feels that their every thought has to be addressed and recorded for posterity (I apologize for the blunt negativity of this one).
Together, reading and writing form a large part of who I define myself to be, and what I do both in and out of school (which does define me, in a sense).
If you’re a reader, a writer, a dreamer, why do you do what you do?