Why I Write
- 4 days ago
- 3 min read
By J. M. Shaw
As a child, I was extremely shy, awkward, and bewildered by the world around me—though I often strove to mask my struggles. Conversations, body language, and social expectations were difficult to comprehend, and I felt as though I were a backup actor thrust onto the stage without a script. As I aged, interpersonal dynamics became more complex, and my confusion deepened. I became a people-watcher, documenting verbal exchanges in an effort to decode the unwritten rules of social interaction and develop a framework for my own responses. This approach only worked so long as those I spoke with did not deviate from the dialogue I had catalogued and memorized. When that happened, I was left scrambling to sustain the conversation, grasping for a reply—anything that might fit.
Eventually, observations were insufficient—I needed to understand the thoughts and feelings behind people’s words and actions. Because I could not access the minds of those around me, I turned to books. The psyches of fictional characters became my new subject of study, but even that was not enough as I entered early adolescence. During this time, when hormones battled logic and emotions were volatile, I was desperate for some semblance of control. The best way I knew to establish stability was through the acquisition of knowledge—not of those around me, but of myself. To that end, I began creating my own fictional characters, setting them on journeys that would elicit the same emotions I was then battling, and watching them resolve their inner conflicts in a controlled setting. Thus, fiction became my laboratory, and my characters became the test subjects.
Born with an overactive imagination and an ever-present need for self-expression, writing was the perfect outlet. But it became much more than a creative medium—it was a hobby turned passion, a safe space to be vulnerable, a platform for discovery, and a form of self-therapy. Writing helped me focus my thoughts, silence mental noise, and calm emotional turbulence. It gave me an outlet to vent my stress—channelling my frustrations, anxiety, heartache, and self- doubt into the lives of my protagonists—thus lightening my burden and giving me room to breathe. Every story I pen brings me closer to understanding the chaotic world in which I live. Eventually, I found a way to combat persistent loneliness while learning to socialize on my own terms. Through storytelling, I learned that fictional characters could serve as temporary stand-ins for companionship.
Without realizing it, I had been training myself to craft authentic characters through years of people-watching and honing my worldbuilding skills by observing the real world and trying to comprehend its ebb and flow. Today, I continue to write, though my reasons have evolved. When I started writing, I had no aspirations of becoming a published author; that dream came later.
Prior to then, I was hesitant to share my creative works for fear of being judged, both for the quality of my writing and for my eccentric perspectives. I only continued for so long because my mind rarely rests, and my imagination demands expression. If I did not write, I would never sleep. To this day, I still keep a notebook beside my bed to jot down those thoughts and ideas that keep me awake, giving them a place to reside so I can dream anew.
In many ways, what started as a form of emotional regulation and a way to understand the world has blossomed into a guiding narrative through which to map my life. My creative muse was always there, simmering beneath the surface. I just needed to find the appropriate conduit. Now, years later, I continue to write every day, not because it is required, but because I am a storyteller, and I must tell my story.
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