About the Responsibility of Being A Writer

Writing comes naturally to me. I do it not only because I want to do it but because it’s something that well, just is to me.

It’s either that or spend days of walking around with a crowded brain, filled with characters and scenes and dialog rattling inside my head.

I do it to please myself.

But when I write, when I’m neck deep into a story, I don’t only think of pleasing myself, I think of pleasing my readers. Scenarios bloom inside my head and I write it down with thoughts of “If I was reading this book, I would want it to happen like this” and that works for me. And it also works for my readers.

It works because I write to share my story, not just to channel what I have in my mind. I want my readers to love my characters, to relate to them, to feel with them, to sympathize and empathize…so I sometimes don’t get other writers that just write whatever they want or people who defend themselves by saying, well, it’s my story. I can do whatever I want.

*shrug* but I guess, that’s their right. But they’re missing out on one of the greatest experience that a writer can have; connecting with their readers.

I felt pride and happiness if a reader claimed that she sighed when my character sighed, cried when my character cried, felt anger when my character was angry because what’s the damn point of telling a story that people won’t care about?

If they just read it for the sake of reading, they might as well read a textbook.

But, sometimes, being a writer or any other artist I suspect, have their burden. Certain responsibilities of what they put out into the world; some kind of message or symbolism that they convey through their art.

We, as the artist, may not meant to do so, but sometimes people latch on to the strangest things when they are troubled.

You might not think your work means something other than just a pretty, exciting thing but some people would think of it as something else.

One of my readers mentioned that one of my stories helped her out of a very difficult situation in her life, her brother had died in an accident and since the characters of my story was also dealing with a loss of a love one, she managed to relate to them and somehow, it helped her out.

I didn’t see how it could because the story was dealing with some dark emotions and my characters were falling apart every which way…but maybe, that was what helped her. Maybe sadness or grief was like a poisonous wound and you have to purge all the poison for the wound to finally heal. And reading about my characters being true to their grief, probably helped her out in voicing hers.

I’m glad I managed to do that for her.

I admit to a certain range of reluctance and anxiety that I managed to influence her life like that but, that’s what art is all about, right?

I also admit to a sudden attack of the conscious, I started thinking, “should I be more careful about what I write? Should I tone things down?” Then of course I shrug those thoughts away.

While it is true that art can influence people in a certain way, humans are not Pavlov dogs. They are not an empty vessel waiting to be filled with ideas and idiosyncrasies. They can think for themselves, decide for themselves, and pick and choose which idea suit them for the better.

I know. I know. Utterly naive, right?

But that is how I am. That was how I was raised. My parent’s didn’t do any parental control about what I watched. I watched Kung Fu movies since I could walk, scenes with violence and drugs (of course I didn’t understand what it was) and kick ass. My brothers killed and played warrior in video games.

And I had always known the difference between reality and games. So, if I could do it, why not other people?

So, with that thought, I stayed writing as I have. And it hasn’t failed me yet. Here’s to hoping it would never will.