I always dread the question, “Why do you write?” It generally follows my reading fiction at gatherings of other writers and people interested in literature or storytelling. Sometimes simply participating in discussions about writing and the publishing world, or lamenting the difficulties of the writing process can incite the question. The enquiry seems to emerge with some expectation that I must have some intellectual calling, or a nagging need to expose a hidden truth, or perhaps an urgency for self-revelation. In some sense, the latter might be true. After all, writing is certainly an act of self-actualization and self-revelation, but I certainly don’t know how to put either into language that would fit one of those essence-of-being discussions on Oprah, notwithstanding the exposure it would provide.
However, the anxiety with which I usually approach this question aside, I have given it much thought. Why do I write? If I simply want to tell stories, I could just call a group of people to my home and recount stories. Or, I could become one of the now unfashionable community raconteurs who meet bi-weekly to recreate what used to be part of the African American tradition of storytelling. In that sense, my purpose would be to share our stories and talk about their revelations.
Perhaps in many ways, I write because I want to be a member of that group of artists who understand the importance of keeping our history and cultural identity alive. I write because we have stories that emerge from a variety of experiences that inform some and remind others of who we are, who we have been, and we might become. In recreating our lived experiences, I want to make people learn and to remember, to feel joy and grief, to embrace and to shun. I want sharply defined characters to captivate us with their tangled lives, tortured relations, mournful songs and triumphant celebrations.
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Duck Summer a Memoir by Angelene J. Hall
I always dread the question, “Why do you write?” It generally follows my reading fiction at gatherings of other writers and people interested in literature or storytelling. Sometimes simply participating in discussions about writing and the publishing world, or lamenting the difficulties of the writing process can incite the question. The enquiry seems to emerge with some expectation that I must have some intellectual calling, or a nagging need to expose a hidden truth, or perhaps an urgency for self-revelation. In some sense, the latter might be true. After all, writing is certainly an act of self-actualization and self-revelation, but I certainly don’t know how to put either into language that would fit one of those essence-of-being discussions on Oprah, notwithstanding the exposure it would provide.
However, the anxiety with which I usually approach this question aside, I have given it much thought. Why do I write? If I simply want to tell stories, I could just call a group of people to my home and recount stories. Or, I could become one of the now unfashionable community raconteurs who meet bi-weekly to recreate what used to be part of the African American tradition of storytelling. In that sense, my purpose would be to share our stories and talk about their revelations.
Perhaps in many ways, I write because I want to be a member of that group of artists who understand the importance of keeping our history and cultural identity alive. I write because we have stories that emerge from a variety of experiences that inform some and remind others of who we are, who we have been, and we might become. In recreating our lived experiences, I want to make people learn and to remember, to feel joy and grief, to embrace and to shun. I want sharply defined characters to captivate us with their tangled lives, tortured relations, mournful songs and triumphant celebrations.