Why I Write

Why I Write

Wei-fan Chang

There is a natural way that every individual finds himself to tread: a modus operandi best suited to his tastes.  In this state, he is in his comfort zone—at ease and in control… 

I began life as an awkward child, the oddball puzzle-piece that couldn’t fit it.  Be it in the States as the only Asian kid in the community, or in Taiwan as the only English-speaker around the block, it wasn’t that I didn’t want to fit in—I tried, but my body seemed to have a will of its own—not only to make a complete and utter fool of myself, but also to piss off dear acquaintances and potential friends.  I eventually learned to watch my words, but no matter how well I tried to mince them, Murphy’s Law was always true: If something can go wrong, it will.  I never sought Solitude’s company—it was she who found me first and held me in her cold, spiny arms. 

The doctrine of a solitary existence called for means of self-entertainment—and for the most part, I found a refuge in books.  The farther I was pushed away, the deeper I pushed into the pages.  The Lord of the Rings, Les Miserables, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, and other great classics were devoured at a frenetic pace.  It did not matter that I sat on the benches alone while the rest of my friends played football or chatted together; the joys that I savored could not be shared with anyone else.  It was a comfortable existence.  Solitude was my mistress and master.  My fate. 

There is a natural way that every individual finds himself to tread: a modus operandi best suited to his tastes.  In this state, he is in his comfort zone—at ease and in control.  However, in an unstable world full of rapid change and sudden yearnings, catharsis is no longer just a task of simply embracing a self-evident truth; one must search and grope in the dark, barefoot amidst a sea of broken glass, to find the answer. 

The desire to make friends bubbled intermittently in primary school, but it was only until junior high that the true ache for friends reached the boiling point.  The tumultuous years—how was the awkward kid with no social skills supposed to make friends?  There was no way I could express with my lips the inner thoughts of my heart—they were wobbly and disjointed bits and pieces, and most of the time the words ended up lodging in my throat and threatened to choke me with humiliation and shame.  Solitude had unleashed terrible Cerberus, my personal demons of self-doubt, to remind me of my fate; but the emotional cauldron of adolescence is something that cannot be capped so easily. 

This was the moment that I decided to write.  Unlike the mouth, who has to spell out tidy little lines of coherent thought to a beat, the pen abides patience and allows time and peace of mind to gather the scattered letters.  All the books I had read, the phantom voices of Erik the Opera Ghost, of Jean Valjean, and Quasimodo, silently rose to my rescue.  Under their tutelage and encouragement, the bits and pieces gradually took shape, until, infused with their voices’ power, the words finally snapped together in a burst of lightning, and—behold!  The floating thoughts I had entertained only in my head now stood before my eyes in words of unexpressed emotions—of white-hot anger, tender endearments, and a myriad others that I cannot name. I had found an outlet.   

There is a natural way that every individual finds himself to tread: a modus operandi best suited to his tastes.  His fate will invariably seek to guide him back to this path, for in this state, he is in his comfort zone—he is at ease and in control.  But should Lady Happiness reside elsewhere, should he wish to court her, he must venture forth beyond his borders and break out a new path for himself in the pursuit of happiness—a path that ignores the coward’s ballad; for a brighter future and a better tomorrow. 

And that, dear reader, is why I write.