Well, for me: Fun. Relaxing. Amusing. Enjoyable. And often, easy.
I write stories all the time, some stupid and short. Some stupid and long, or would-be-longs, but abridged. And then some long and serious.
For others, I’ve heard things like: Lame, difficult, annoying.
Of course, this doesn’t go for everybody- I know that all the other bloggers out there aren’t this way, and I know that writing can be one’s secret passion, at times. I understand that there’s just as many people who like to write as there are who don’t.
However, when essays come up in school, I mean- it’s complaint city, right? No one likes them. I like writing them, but not analyzing… well, whatever it is we happen to be analyzing. Especially if it’s a book, or some dumb little blurb on the percentage of kids who get involved with drugs, or whatever. It’s a waste of brainpower, frankly. I read to read, not to reduce it to microfibers of symbolism. Books can be ruined that way. If I had read certain books for pleasure and not for school, I wouldn’t mind them being on my bookshelf right now. But I do.
Essays are a different kind of writing, to me. Essays only give you the good feeling, which I’ll call Fzaow (I would use Wordgasm, but E. E. Cummings has got a patent on that word, I think), at the very end of writing the whole damn thing. You sit back in your creaky spinny chair and breathe a sigh of relief that the paper didn’t kill you. Fzaow.
Where there’s analytical writing, there’s analytical reading- and I recommend neither. Essays, no. And sticky-noting the page where Anne Frank talks about her mother being incapable of providing kindness and affection- that’s also a no. An anti-Fzaow, if you will.
No, that Fzaow you got from writing that essay? That was tainted with the pressure of being forced to write it, tainted with the weight it carried.
Now, think about this: sitting down, grabbing a pen and a few sheets of paper, and writing something, anything, without being told to. No one grades you, and no one makes fun of you for it (you don’t have to tell anybody). It’s between you and yourself, and it can bomb or it can end up being great.
Writing is fun.
Writing is interesting, and what you write about can relate to you, or maybe it won’t. Maybe it’s about space, an alternate universe, things that aren’t real but could be. Maybe those things are easy for you to write about. Or maybe it’s about a kid that goes to school, like you. Or maybe it’s about a man who works a job as a professional editor at Viking Publishers, head of a team of go-overers. Because your dad works a job like that.
Maybe it’s a journal! About yourself and what you do, what you say and what you feel. And there’s no shame in keeping a diary/journal (feminine/both, just so you know), because it’s good to come back to and certainly very easy to write. It’s time well-spent, if you ask me.
And maybe you just scribble words on a sheet of paper, draw a border, add meteors and a sky and a tree, and then crumple it up and toss it. Also time well-spent. Fzaow. The crumple of paper feels good in my hands, regardless of what was in it- it may have been nonsense.
Writing is brilliant.
Aestheism, not atheism.