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On Becoming a Writer
Written by Cory Nicastro   
I don't know why, and I hope I never find out.
–Jayne Anne Phillips

 

I've kept journals (sporadically at times) since at least nine years old; I have all of them as far back as sixth grade. Upon review, I've found that entries often begin with one problem or thought process and by dint of discursive, meandering ravings I eventually arrive someplace worthwhile—the answer, a new understanding, a light bulb moment, etc. It is usually while engaged in the act of writing in my journal that I am able to see myself clearly: once writing autopilot kicks in, my higher brain functions become fully engaged and active. This same, ostensibly uncanny, thing happens during prose writing, which is why I tend to approach those pieces with only a vague notion of a conflict or feeling I'd like to express. Then I write my way out of the maze.

 

The first two creative pieces I ever authored of my own volition were rhyming poems; I was in sixth grade and, like my journals, the work strongly broadcasts that fact. More important than what they didn't do as works of art or social commentary, however, is what the process of creating them did do: surprise me. I was surprised and delighted that I had put pen to paper and produced ... not garbage. No, I wasn't a budding female Amiri Baraka, but I hadn't written a cutesy nursery rhyme or cheesy greeting card blurb either. It was the first time I revealed that (very raw) talent to myself. In high school I began studying the craft of creative writing and experimenting with substance, wordsmithery and form. Unfortunately, in all the years since those first two poems, I've created a pitifully tiny canon, which could be a problem since I have some pretty lofty literary goals. And until recently I have been unable to devote much time to my passion for myriad reasons. Because of this, more than a few times I've had to reassess the situation and ask myself a crucial question: why do I write?


In the book Why I Write: Thoughts on the Craft edited by Will Blythe, numerous writers consider that same question. Answers run the gamut from bombastic to profound, but most address the journey down this well-trodden path and not what really drives the intrinsic (often inescapable) urge to communicate, the need to meditate on life's mysteries via fiction and poetry rather than studying or contributing to the vast annals of philosophy. I once heard Madonna explain that she became a singer because she had something to say and not because she was necessarily a talented singer. Not unlike her, I have plenty to say about the world around me, but why this medium seems to be one of the fundamental offices of my psyche is something I can't quite pin down (although I hope my writing talents are greater than Madge's singing talent or I might as well give up now). The first part of Ms. Phillips' answer in the epigraph certainly echoes my own, although I wouldn't say that I hope to never find out. If it does turn out that I'm never able to arrive at a definitive answer, which is likely, it doesn't really matter; ultimately, I write because it just makes sense to me.


The incapability of the United States to adopt the metric system, on the other hand, does not.

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