Michaela Ironwood: Why I Write (even when my keyboard hates me)

If characters have something to hope for, so does the writer. And boy, do writers need a lot of hope in a saturated world that seems to work against them...

Photo by Thom Milkovic on Unsplash

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In the simplest terms, I write because I’ve been changed by the creations of others. I’ve pined for many worlds, characters, lives and abilities, and ached to crawl through the pages or screens of books and movies. This is how I first came to writing as a child. I wrote the lives I wanted most to live. Eventually, I started writing what made me curious. And now, I can’t stop asking, what if?

Every day, all around me, the smallest of details can spur this question. The first question leads to another. Then I’m falling down a rabbit hole, clutching at the details swarming around me. I’ve jumped from a plane before, and I’d liken the rush of freefall to the thrill of brainstorming a novel or an easily flowing scene. These moments are driven by fear. But instead of fearing the ground, I’m scared I can’t keep up. I dread a missed opportunity.

Like many, I sometimes believe I’ll remember an idea in the morning or when I get home, only to find the Muse has packed her wares in search of a more grateful writer, one who stops everything upon her arrival. Nowadays, I have a notes app at hand, and the kettle is always filled for an unexpected yet welcome visitor.

Even with long gaps between visits from the Muse, an ever-giving well of inspiration is the writer’s inner workings. I’m an over-thinker at the best of times, but I put that power (some say vice) to work by mulling over my experiences and giving them to characters. By adding a fictional lens – righting wrongs, changing endings – I make something out of the ordinary.

I write to understand myself and, by extension, others. If you make the fictional version ten times worse, the real one doesn’t seem so bad. If characters have something to hope for, so does the writer. And boy, do writers need a lot of hope in a saturated world that seems to work against them.

I write despite the odds and sometimes to spite them, even when my keyboard hates me. For a time, it was the Space key. Then, E and C were cutting in and out of existence. At the moment, it’s A, R and L. As I write, hitting the keys at a rapid rate, I’m frustrated to no end as letters are missed. I was even more frustrated when I hit the key four times, increasingly irritated, commanding the letter to materialise.

I’ll face the rigmarole of replacing my keyboard at some point (warranties, ugh), but for now I soldier on. Stretching my patience and resilience (and proofreading). Testing my resolve in a pursuit that requires uninterrupted attention on the best of days. My battle with the keyboard has become a symbol of the fight for my creative career.

I take a deep breath, move the cursor back and add the missing letters. Part of me hopes the keyboard will right itself. If the problem keys can change on a whim, then they can return to normal. I just have to outlast them, one strained sigh at a time.

Asking why I write is like asking why I breathe (dramatic, I know). Most of the time, a steady inhale-exhale without noticing. Words falling from fingertips on a gust of their own making. Other times, a gasp of shock or excitement. An idea interrupting your day or forcing you to turn the lamp on at midnight. Rapid, shallow breaths from fear or exertion. A brutal fight through an emotional minefield or an unknown landscape. Four seconds in and four seconds out to steady oneself before a leap of faith – a hope for a soft landing. Or a long inhale, held for the briefest moment, before belting a Hail Mary note in a song – a hope for greatness.

I write because Aragorn yelled, ‘For Frodo’, because Jyn said, ‘Rebellions are built on hope’, because Scarlett refused to be hungry, and Rose promised she’d never let go.

I don’t really know why I write; I just do. I breathe in, and words come out. Life happens, and stories emerge. Without writing, there’s only a painful longing for something missing. Writing offers hope, not just for the writer but for the world. What if I can tell a story that inspires others the same way others inspired me?