An explanation of sorts:
I’ve got this belief that if I throw enough words at a problem maybe I can fix it. Words are a salve. Words are the way I put my finger in the dike to keep the flood from overflowing.
Virginia Woolf said that she wrote to make things whole.
I am no Virginia Woolf, but I think I understand where she was coming from. If I can throw enough words at a problem, something will stick, a solution will be found, understanding gained.
This makes me sound altruistic as a writer. Which, I can assure you is not the case.
A good friend of mine wrote a piece once for our dorm literary magazine about creating art. He said it was like a drug, he was both the dealer and the junkie and he couldn’t produce it fast enough to feed his addiction.
That was how I felt about the saxophone. It is how I feel about writing. The challenge of producing one good sentence, one that will be remembered after the newspaper’s been thrown in the trash is what I enjoy. Still, I don’t write for immortality or fame; I write because everyday I need the high and because I think some good can come of it.
I have the drug on one hand and on the other hand I see that there are a lot of problems in the community, in the world, that are threatening to overflow the embankment. I am compelled to try and make these things better where I can.
A drug and a compulsive behavior ... words are how I try to fix things, for myself and for others.
