Why bother writing?

Since 2001, I've had this remarkably odd urge to write things for other people to read. I'd thought about being a novelist before, primarily for the reason I generally give: my experience of the world is partially the result of what I've read; there are quite a few books that mean a lot to me, and I want to be able to create something that means something to others. But I don't think that would have developed on its own into the urge I feel now.

A little story

Sometime in, I think, 2001, I went to a memorial service. It wasn't someone I knew all that well, and he'd already been dead a while. And yet it was one of the most affecting days of my life.

He had committed suicide, after a long period of depression and a variety of severe problems. The original memorial service, in a local funeral home, was almost too soon after his death. Also, I couldn't stay for all of it—not only was it very long, but I had other places I had to be that evening. So it didn't affect me much at the time.

The second memorial service, at the graveside, was much later. The delay was primarily the time it took to design and prepare his headstone, but I think it also involved a significant period of adjustment for his family: going from caring for a dangerously depressed son or brother to trying to live without him had been wrenching for them. The time hadn't decreased the intensity of their loss. Also, this memorial service was much smaller, and I wasn't at the back of a large funeral-home chapel; I was right there in amongst everyone else.

Nevertheless, I was fine until his brother stood up to sing a song to him. Not for him, but to him. For some reason I couldn't take it. The feeling of loss was too intense. I didn't leave, but rather had to cradle my own head, chin-to-chest with my arms wrapped around it, like one might do to avoid vomiting or to let an intense dizziness pass.

And when I got home, in a profoundly altered state, I began to write a short story.

Writing and the desire to write

Since then, rather than writing things purely for myself, I've had an intense urge to write things for other people to read. I was too shy, for as long as I can remember, to really write anything meaningful with the intent of showing it. Sure, I wrote stories, on demand, for classes, when it was required. I enjoyed it, even. Sure, I wrote papers for classes, and took as much care and pride in the structure and wording as I do now. And I had felt the desire to write things that could touch others in the way that many books I read had been extremely impactful for me. But I had never had an irrepressible urge to actually do it.

But it's mostly been frustration. Maybe one day I will be able to write fiction that isn't set in Japan, but for now I can't. I think it's because there's a kind of overwhelming wonder I feel about Japan. It's so different—I've never really liked living in Texas, for as long as I can remember. I've read at least one novel set in Austin, and it was great. But the things I come up with seem either to take place in Japan, or in the past. Since I bog down in the research, not knowing enough history, I never seem to get those stories off the ground.

Until I go back, I can't write fiction. And so I go on writing these things, expressing directly—instead of indirectly—the emotions of the day. It doesn't feel like a very good substitute.