Hello, friends. I’ve finally taken it upon myself to make a proper blog-type site to keep track of my many endeavors. As of the posting of this blog entry, I’ve managed to get something in nearly every category for your perusal, meaning the site is finally ready to go. I’ll be staggering my updates so I can get through my backlog of posts (as I assure you there is much more where this came from, all waiting to be formatted and posted) at a rate that keeps me from becoming over encumbered, while at the same time keeping things consistently fresh and interesting for those who choose to check back often.
To get in the spirit of things, I choose to have my first formal blog post (this one) feature a piece I wrote a while back regarding the purpose of fiction, and why I’ve always thought it was interesting. At any rate, welcome!
Why Write? 
It was several years ago that the thought of it had first occurred to me. It was a rainy afternoon, if I remember correctly, when the younger, but equally pensive middle school version of me sat, in the ridiculous manner that always provoked thought. Legs crossed, against the wall, with my back on the mattress, I looked at the sky and while thinking to nobody but myself, I questioned reality. Was the world really so concrete? Is science really all we had, and was there nothing more, no magic or fantastical adventures of grandeur to be had? An avid reader, and an even more avid daydreamer, I had ideas, plots, worlds, characters, things of every sort stowed in that head of mine. If this world was really as boring as it seemed, then I’d create my own. It was then, in 7th grade, that I had hardened my resolve to become a writer. Of course, I didn’t know what being a “writer” entailed back then. As far as I was concerned, I was a god, creating worlds that I could control, and that, after not two paragraphs of writing, seemed to form themselves. I’d write stories about any and everything, commonly about a tortured protagonist going on a grand quest, or whatever. However, there was one story in particular, about a boy. This boy was special, as was the story, being different from my regular tales of fantasy. The boy, named Asterisk, lived a life typical of any ordinary middle school student going through school, except for the fact the he was completely alienated from the rest of the school population. Nobody understood him, but they poked fun at him anyway. I continued it, not realizing what exactly I was writing about, but just going with what came to mind. Then one day, as I sat alone at lunch as usual, I flipped through the pages and realized that I was writing about life. The character developed the most, Asterisk, had my qualities and traits projected onto him, I was in that world through him. My characters were based off of real people, the situations; ones I had actually found myself in. In a world of fiction, my world of reality lay there, summarized in that notebook.
That story, a fairly accurate snapshot of my middle school life from my perspective, lies somewhere, hidden amongst the piles of old books in my basement, yet that point in time, wherever the book is, still lies immortalized on the page in word form. Nowadays, I often look to reality for inspiration for my writing, because incidentally enough, reality is where you can find the best stories. Writing, in itself, could be considered an art form. Some have both a knack and a passion, or rather, an aptitude for it, whereas those that don’t, simply don’t, for whatever reason. Writers that are similar to myself are the way they are because they just are. We see the world differently, look at things most people don’t, and can be excessively philosophical to the point where you end up a nuisance to those around you. (Guilty.) William Shakespeare, a dead white guy whose name gets tossed around a fair bit, is famous for reflecting the times during which he lived in his many writings. Harper Lee, with “To kill a mockingbird”, brought issues regarding gender and race into light. The thing is that although both of these authors are renowned for the messages carried through their writing, the works of both are, in fact, fictional. So, fiction, as it is commonly seen, isn’t all pixies, dragons, and people with glowing hair and telekinesis, it can carry a message and make people think in ways they wouldn’t regularly consider thinking in. So the question is, then, if we as writers have the ability to create a world of fiction based on the world that surrounds us, and then use that fiction to convey a point to society, are we obligated to do so? Of course, nobody can tell us what to write, and why to write, and for what purpose we write, the same way that nobody can tell you what to think about. But the thing is that we, as writers, can’t help but to take in and be inspired by the world around us. Like it or not, what we write is influenced by the world around us, because we as people are influenced by the very same thing. Like it or not, you reflect some aspect of society in everything you do, write, or say. As a writer, we owe the world nothing while at the same time we owe the world so much. Simply put, a writer’s duty to himself and to the world around him is simply to write, to be the eyes that see the world in a different light, and to be the voice that allows that perspective to be heard.