Why I Write-Frank McCourt

I write. I write. I write.

The lush feel of ink staining paper makes me feel full and satisfied. Many necessities in my life have been scarce at one time or another: money, cleanliness, self-satisfaction; however, the vast oasis of words in my mind has never run dry. Ask me for 100 words, I’ll give you 1,000. I can’t help myself. Words are history. Words are my memory. Words are Ireland. Words are my passport to the intangible past-the days behind me that have lost brilliance, but not vigor.

I have lived. I do not write to solidify my own past-I have a mind that is solid enough to retain my memories. Rather, I write to teach the past to those who were born blindly into this world- those who live each day not knowing the legacies of those who walked before them. I am the voice of Ireland and all that it lost, and all that it gained.

Who? What? When? Where? Why? Who cares? Tell me how you felt, how your body reacted to overwhelming human emotion. Take away everything material-take away my food, his clothes, your bed, their house. Maybe life is fair: the important aspects of life-emotions- cannot be taken away. I do not manipulate words to create narratives, but I order words to mimic emotions. Emotions are horrifying, fulfilling, uncontrollable, self-induced phenomena that lack a How-To Guide. I write not to create that How-To-Guide, but to create a This-Is-What-Happened-To-Us-Leave-It-Or-Learn-From-It Guide. I want to teach the depression of my mother and the drunken movements of my father to save not myself, but those of the future.

When I write, I sing. Words are more powerful than temporary emotions induced by the generosity behind a material gift. It’s amazing the power a sing-song voice can have on a person. Words hold the healing powers-I wish to heal through writing, as I allow my words to sing.

Age is incredibly important when analyzing one’s capacity for comprehension, pain, love, and want. I write to reflect the way I thought at a given age. At age five, I took notice of the trivial moments in life, and the miniscule details. The brilliant white of my brother’s coffin was much more important than the way I felt, or the way mom cried. At age seventeen, I could evaluate my life from a far. The weather was much less important than the way in which I viewed my sinful actions, and how they would affect my future. However, the mind of a child is just as influential, if not more influential, than the judgmental, often dirtied, mind of an adult. We are born with the ability to view life without bias, without comparing ourselves to those around us, without self-pity. I write to teach the genius of the juvenile mind.

Oh, those pompous priests. I write to prove those pompous priests wrong. Life is more than strategically avoiding the urges of sin, just as Ireland is defined much more by its physical beauty than by its church. Yes, St. Francis, I once spoke of life’s unfair nature. However, through writing, I have reassessed my life. Religious fastidiousness has been replaced with maturity and self-forgiveness. Writing gives me the power to move forward, grow, and teach.

A poor boy-that’s what I was. I am a boy whose mother gave birth out of wedlock, and whose parents were from not from the same regions of Ireland. It was overwhelmingly difficult to break free from society’s unwelcoming tendency to express prejudices. Emotions were contained, not nurtured. America and my voyage upon the Irish Oak gave freedom to my pen. Words flew unfiltered from my mind and onto the page, where they gained tangibility. I write to be free.

Words have the power to induce laughter. Life is filled with humorous moments that make us stop our pain and suffering, even if just for a moment, to enjoy simply being alive. I consistently inject a little humor into my writing to convey the joy of breath and the pure beauty of living.

Yes, life has been a wild ride. A ride filled with faces that I cannot remember, emotions that I never captured, and moments that transcend words. However, my past, as difficult as it may have been, is what allowed me to move forward. I write to move forward as I carry with me my readers. I write to retell what I can in hopes of nurturing a better tomorrow by touching the minds of today.