Why do I write? Many people have asked me that over the years. Sometimes it was simple curiosity. Sometimes it was with a sense of frustration because I tried to solve problems by writing letters instead of talking them out. That’s because I’m not good at arguing. Oh, I can pick a point and defend it to the end. I’ve done it many times. I am nothing if not stubborn. However, when it comes to defending that point intelligently and convincing my opponent that I am correct, I’m not really all that successful. I can’t think and talk at the same time. My mind just doesn’t react that quickly. I always think of the perfect thing to say an hour later, after everyone else has given up and gone home.
I need to put the words on paper so that I can read them, edit them, revise them and then put them away for an hour or so. Think about them, let them settle and cook. Then read them again, edit them again, and revise them again. After all that, I may decide I’ve organized my thoughts and expressed them well enough to share. I need the path from my brain to my fingers, then my eyes back to my brain. Without that circle, I’m not sure what’s going on in there. I may know exactly what I feel, but explaining it to others requires an effort beyond words.
By the same token, I’ve never been able to totally absorb information by listening. For me to listen to a lecture at school without a pencil and paper to take notes would be a waste of time for me and the teacher. I would never remember what was said unless I wrote it down, then read over the notes later, sometimes with a highlighter in hand to reenforce what I had written. Listening is for music not words. Words belong on paper.
I am amazed by people who can quote whole passages from movies or memorize song lyrics after hearing them sang a couple of times. Don’t misunderstand, I love movies almost as much as reading. I like all kinds of music, well, except rap. You see rap is all about the words and I seldom understand them, much less remember them.
But why is this? I don’t know. I wonder sometimes if there is a term for it. People who have trouble interpreting the written word are dyslexic. What about people who can hear perfectly well, who understand the words without a problem, but have trouble retaining them. I hear you saying its a short-term memory thing, but I don’t think so. I can play matching games. I’m not the best at it, but I can function there. I don’t have any trouble remembering faces, or pictures, just spoken words.
So, I write. Because it’s how I communicate. Writing is how I interpret the world around me. It’s how I share my thoughts, feelings, experiences, and opinions. Without it I would be as isolated as though I lost my hearing or sight. I don’t know where it comes from. It doesn’t seem to be genetic. It’s just the way my mind works. I’m sure I’m not the only one with this idiosyncrasy, but I don’t know of anyone else.
Perhaps we tend to hide it from the world, like a “dirty little secret.” We don’t want to show our handicap in public, so we just don’t mention it in polite company. “Oh, I’m sorry. What did you say? Do you have a pencil? I need to write that down.” Or “Sorry, I know you want me to give you an opinion on that, but I have to write my thoughts down and spend a couple of hours editing them first.”
Yesterday I watched a show about Dyslexia. They interviewed important, successful people who have the problem. Business men, self-made millionaires, doctors, even lawyers who can barely read, but they manage to handle high stress jobs that require intelligence and coping skills. Some of them were famous, I’d tell you who, but I didn’t take notes and I can’t remember their names now. I can see their faces, but the names are gone.
It made me think about how differently we deal with handicaps. Some people give up. “I can’t read. School is too hard. It’s boring. I’ll quit and get a job.” Kids don’t understand that taking that kind of job may mean your whole life will be hard. Other people stick to it. They find ways to work around the problem and succeed in spite of it or maybe even because of it.
I know for sure, that I’d rather have my problem than theirs. I didn’t learn to read at age 3, like some people claim. I learned in first grade like most everyone else, but I was reading my father’s Science Fiction magazines and my mother’s True Romance before I reached third grade. Words on the page have always been a natural medium for me. If I couldn’t read, the world would be a much less interesting place. If I couldn’t read, I wouldn’t be able to write and I must write. It’s how I live.
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