Why I Write

Of course I stole this title from Didion, who stole it from Orwell, as she writes in one of her famous essays:

“One reason I stole it was that I like the sound of the words: Why I Write. There you have three short unambiguous words that share a sound, and the sound they share is this: 

I

I

I

In many ways writing is the act of saying I, of imposing oneself upon other people, of saying listen to me, see it my way, change your mind.”

How else could one better convey the compulsive, assertive, inherently subconscious and revealing aspects of writing? There you have it. 

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A couple of years ago, while implementing a lot of changes in my life, I started writing again, mostly for ‘fun’. I liked the cathartic relief it gave me. It took things out of my system. It was freeing. It was keeping my brain active and sharp at a time where my daily cognitive load was filled with post-pandemic-identity-crisis content, torn between existentialism and hedonism. 

Writing made me feel like a student again—curious, engaged. I began documenting thoughts in short essays, sharing them with friends when something felt worth noticing and to see if something resonated. 

Who knew spilling words would provide such sheer pleasure? Writing gives me space to think—to refine what spontaneity and timidity often leave unsaid. In short, I write because I like doing it. I probably always will. It’s another opportunity for expression and experimentation. It’s another medium I can use while the clay and paint dries. And selfishly, I simply want more of it in my life.

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But that isn’t the full story, I always felt being “torn between the desire to stay private and the urge to expose [one]self, to seek connection”, as Rebecca Solnit refers to the process. When I reflected on what it was that I was actually writing about, the connective thread in those essays was simply my love and appreciation for art (I’ll use this term here in the broad sense of human and cultural creation), and the poetry I was finding in life. 

These were the things that moved me, that made my soul vibrate. Why keep them to myself? I want to honor the creators and works that I deeply appreciate, hoping others could experience that as well.  

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I will never not be amazed by the fact that in a world where most are trying to survive, some still find ways to create, in the purest pursuit, becoming their only way to exist. In experiencing art, we also find the ability to step out of our ‘survival modes’. We find ways to connect with the collective human experience, we enter the spiritual realm of ideas, where time, space and individuality matter little. This is how the idea for this publication came to be: Otherhood emerged as a space to nourish the mind with otherworldly musings—an archive of creative wonder; And of course a wink to motherhood, which has been a catalyst for creativity. 

“Your timing might be perfect, everyone is like ‘give me a break from this terrible garbage fire reality’ ”, a dear friend shared when I presented the idea. I laughed nervously. If it can give anyone a breath of fresh air, then be it; but I also hope art can be more than momentarily escapism. I truly believe it helps us understand reality better, like stepping aside from the main road to reassess where we are going, and if a new path needs to be built.

Art sharpens our vision, as George Saunders beautifully captures in ‘She who helps see’, his essay on Inka Essenhigh,  shared by said friend in a perfect example of synchronicity —offering, in his words, 'a brief liberation from the habitual.' Art helps question the nature of our reality, it helps us change our minds”, when something is “so real that it’s edging over into abstraction.” He writes:

‘Essenhigh’s work, sacramentally, reminds me that most of the time I’m coasting, on perceptual autopilot. It says: “George, let me help you see better, with more acuity and less habituation. Let me help you expand the miracle of your awareness and become a more generous noticer. Try to know less. Stay with the not-knowing a little longer; it’s nice there.”’ 

Writing is researching, seeking out; it is going on a quest to see better. Ironically I suffer from extreme myopia -near-sightedness-, so I am still learning how to see with my mind. I want to see everything. 

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But perhaps, what fascinates me the most, is that art creation is a shared conversation that moves our identity, our humanity forward, not linearly but dynamically. It is a constant iteration and pruning of ideas coming from unexpected sources, growing into new branches and budding a unique combination of outcomes. It’s the thing that remains when everything material has disappeared. It is the closest thing to a divine collective consciousness. 

And just like seeing art, writing is a form of cherishing and nurturing that dialogue; participating in a chain of shared experience that will echo and transform into something, into another thing, indefinitely. We are all vessels, and there is no scale too small to take part. All of that energy eventually contributes to the serendipity, or rather synchronicity, for the next transformation. I’m curious to see how technology will metabolize and accentuate that process. In the words of Melissa Febos at the end of her powerful essay Body Work:

“I am much more interested in what art is and can be than what it is not. It is a form of worship, a medicine, a solitary and a social act. It is an ancient process through which I draw closer to my ancestors. [...] I know this process to be divine.”