Veronica Kordmany
Editor '18
Editor '18
If I were an artist, my mind would be an elongated canvas, its white space never being consumed. If I were a mathematician, my thoughts would be an everlasting equation, its solution an infinite string of numbers roped together by a taut line. But, I am a writer. I breathe in ideas through my eyes, I spit out stories from the tips of my fingertips. I am a bomb on the verge of exploding. I am Atlas, the vastness of literature sitting on my shoulders. As its holder, I am endlessly held accountable to my service of providing the world with my thoughts.
But what is the purpose of all this work? Can the world continue on without my input? Why are we writers hopelessly putting ourselves out there, in our rawest forms? We write to convey our emotions; we choose the solitude of pen to paper over human conversation because words as sacred as these are hard to encompass for in person. As human beings, we all feel guarded with our feelings; it’s impossible for us to be fully confident after putting ourselves out there. In a place where only a slimmer of the surface presents itself; offering itself up to lure us in, only to pull us in over our heads.
As writers, we are constantly at moral peril with the produce of our minds. The human brain is a scary thing; unpredictable, unknown. There’s an abundance of reasons for writing. So what justification do I hold? I’m in no position to change people’s lives with the enormity of literature, nor am I scholarly enough to teach a lesson through impersonal expression. You could say that writing is like drunkenly stumbling into a dark room. You're confused, dazed, with no perception of your surroundings. So all you could do is turn to your mind to lead the way.
There are no shortcuts to writing. You start by picking up a pen. You leave your world behind as you embark on a journey through words. Why do I write? So I can get away from all that awaits me.
The world is a damaged place. Evil lurks behind every corner, ready to suck out the small pieces of happiness from the streets. J.K. Rowling once personified this as "Death Eaters." As she realized, as all great writers realize, the one place a Death Eater can never reach... is your imagination. An abyss of utopia, untouchable to anyone but its beholder. While this is a blessing, it is also a curse. Many have tried in vain to profit from the thoughts that consume them, but not all succeed.
But what is the purpose of all this work? Can the world continue on without my input? Why are we writers hopelessly putting ourselves out there, in our rawest forms? We write to convey our emotions; we choose the solitude of pen to paper over human conversation because words as sacred as these are hard to encompass for in person. As human beings, we all feel guarded with our feelings; it’s impossible for us to be fully confident after putting ourselves out there. In a place where only a slimmer of the surface presents itself; offering itself up to lure us in, only to pull us in over our heads.
As writers, we are constantly at moral peril with the produce of our minds. The human brain is a scary thing; unpredictable, unknown. There’s an abundance of reasons for writing. So what justification do I hold? I’m in no position to change people’s lives with the enormity of literature, nor am I scholarly enough to teach a lesson through impersonal expression. You could say that writing is like drunkenly stumbling into a dark room. You're confused, dazed, with no perception of your surroundings. So all you could do is turn to your mind to lead the way.
There are no shortcuts to writing. You start by picking up a pen. You leave your world behind as you embark on a journey through words. Why do I write? So I can get away from all that awaits me.
The world is a damaged place. Evil lurks behind every corner, ready to suck out the small pieces of happiness from the streets. J.K. Rowling once personified this as "Death Eaters." As she realized, as all great writers realize, the one place a Death Eater can never reach... is your imagination. An abyss of utopia, untouchable to anyone but its beholder. While this is a blessing, it is also a curse. Many have tried in vain to profit from the thoughts that consume them, but not all succeed.