Why do people write? Why especially would anyone write when all you have to do is to ask Chat GPT to do it for you? Speaking personally, why am I still writing at all? Is it just a hangover from an earlier time and I’m just going on repeating patterns of behaviour like all older people do? Is it as obsolete as map reading or remembering someone’s telephone number? I’ve been wondering.
I’ve been writing, on and off, all my life. I wrote my first song when I was 14 (It was called ‘Together in love’ and was about as bad as it sounds!!). I wrote poems (pretty awful, though in later years they were a bit better I suppose), stories and who knows what else.
Rather by accident, it seems (though now I’m not so sure) I ended up writing material for students and teachers of English as a foreign language. What I especially enjoy is writing long-form methodology, trying to use my own ‘voice’ or style to communicate ideas. Along the way I have written, too, a number of novels (because why wouldn’t you!) and have got better as a fiction writer, I hope.
Oh, and when I am not doing that I am writing songs, lots and lots and lots of songs and then learning to perform them – which I do as often as people will let me!
Is it a compulsion? A kind of wild neurodivergence? An exercise in ego and selfishness? A desire to communicate and reach out? I’ve given up asking myself, to be honest. Every other writer of anything must ask themselves too but as yet I have never really heard a satisfactory answer (have you?)
But there is one great poem by Seamus Heaney which I love (you may prefer to read it with proper punctuation and spacing here) and which has something to say on the matter:
Digging
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.
Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father digging. I look down.
Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
When he was digging.
The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked.
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.
By God the old man could handle a spade.
Just like his old man.
My grandfather cut more turf in a day Than any other man on Toner’s bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Though living roots awaken in my head.
But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I’ll dig with it.