Mark Laporta
While I do know what the phrase “inspired to write” is supposed to mean, I don’t think I’ve ever experienced it. At least, not in the sense of a mystic vision hovering before my eyes like an afterimage. I write because I have ideas on my mind, issues that perplex, trouble, irritate, frighten or enlighten, entertain, mystify or fascinate me. They are ideas I have no opportunity to express in everyday conversation, act on, or bring to life in any real world I’m liable to inhabit.
In other terms, I write to express an inner reality that is every bit as tangible and nearly as emotionally meaningful to me as external reality. I say “nearly,” because I know there’s no character, plotline, “inciting incident” or dramatic apotheosis that is worth one millionth of a baby’s smile or a lover’s sigh. “Nearly,” because the fate of the planet, and our interdependent social/political survival, the discovery of potent cures to end and prevent suffering, eradicate hunger and improve global mental health are obviously more important than whether my POV character has antennae or scales.
And yet, when kept in proper perspective, writing matters to me as a way to talk about the larger issues of humanity that can’t easily find a voice over lunch, on TV, at the mall, in a stadium, or even, surprisingly, a house of worship.
But all lofty thoughts aside, I write because I enjoy it. It delivers sensual pleasure, if not the kind usually associated with that phrase. And that brings up another point. I like writing because, though it appears to be composed of words, it is the best antidote to the depressing literalism of everyday life, of routine conversation and of “down to earth” discussions about aspects of being self-aware that none of us actually understand.
In other terms, I write to express an inner reality that is every bit as tangible and nearly as emotionally meaningful to me as external reality. I say “nearly,” because I know there’s no character, plotline, “inciting incident” or dramatic apotheosis that is worth one millionth of a baby’s smile or a lover’s sigh. “Nearly,” because the fate of the planet, and our interdependent social/political survival, the discovery of potent cures to end and prevent suffering, eradicate hunger and improve global mental health are obviously more important than whether my POV character has antennae or scales.
And yet, when kept in proper perspective, writing matters to me as a way to talk about the larger issues of humanity that can’t easily find a voice over lunch, on TV, at the mall, in a stadium, or even, surprisingly, a house of worship.
But all lofty thoughts aside, I write because I enjoy it. It delivers sensual pleasure, if not the kind usually associated with that phrase. And that brings up another point. I like writing because, though it appears to be composed of words, it is the best antidote to the depressing literalism of everyday life, of routine conversation and of “down to earth” discussions about aspects of being self-aware that none of us actually understand.
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