don't read this.
I haven’t written anything in months. Well, I want to believe it has only been months, when it may actually be a year or more. It feels that way, regardless of the truth. In any case, this isn’t meant to be anything of consequence. This is an exercise, a flexing of the muscles, a walk in the park, not a marathon.
I used to dream about writing for real. You know, as a professional, someone who might hand out business cards that say “author” or “novelist”. At the very least, I have always thought myself eternally capable of churning out short stories - always lovingly, not in that super prolific Stephen King-esque style of writing where one throws so much word paint on the wall in the hopes that some of it will stick and make sense to someone out there in the infinite abyss. Actually, now that I consider it out loud, maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing…that is, connecting with a single person, not the whole shotgun blast in the hopes of hitting a target writing style.
If I knew, without a doubt, that at least one person out there - somewhere, anywhere, I wouldn’t even have to meet them - would read what I write and have an opinion of it (good or bad doesn’t even matter!) that could be motivation enough to keep on writing. Regardless of what anyone says, we all write with the hopes that eyes will gaze upon our words. In most cases, we want immediate or near immediate viewing (newspaper articles, reviews, blog entries, etc.). But even when we consider diaries, can any of us say, with absolute honestly, that we would rather the world keep on turning without anyone ever trying to understand why we lived our lives the way we did - our motivations, desires, fears, etc.? Sure, diaries often act as catalysts for moments of catharsis - we dump all of our troubles out onto the pages of a notebook and this somehow leads to emotional epiphanies that sometimes do have real utility value in our lives- but the real magic of it all, I think, comes from the fear of discovery. When we put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) we are, in fact, translating electronic impulses firing systematically in our minds into characters that make up words, sentences, and paragraphs, which convey not only what surface information the words carry literally by definition, but also provide some understanding, however small, to the silent whirring of our minds, the language of which only we ourselves speak. We put parts of ourselves into everything we form; I believe it it is impossible not to.
But I digress. Massively, it seems. Still, I’ll write more, though I won’t ever be a writer. And I’ll hope, never secretly, that someone will read this.
I used to dream about writing for real. You know, as a professional, someone who might hand out business cards that say “author” or “novelist”. At the very least, I have always thought myself eternally capable of churning out short stories - always lovingly, not in that super prolific Stephen King-esque style of writing where one throws so much word paint on the wall in the hopes that some of it will stick and make sense to someone out there in the infinite abyss. Actually, now that I consider it out loud, maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing…that is, connecting with a single person, not the whole shotgun blast in the hopes of hitting a target writing style.
If I knew, without a doubt, that at least one person out there - somewhere, anywhere, I wouldn’t even have to meet them - would read what I write and have an opinion of it (good or bad doesn’t even matter!) that could be motivation enough to keep on writing. Regardless of what anyone says, we all write with the hopes that eyes will gaze upon our words. In most cases, we want immediate or near immediate viewing (newspaper articles, reviews, blog entries, etc.). But even when we consider diaries, can any of us say, with absolute honestly, that we would rather the world keep on turning without anyone ever trying to understand why we lived our lives the way we did - our motivations, desires, fears, etc.? Sure, diaries often act as catalysts for moments of catharsis - we dump all of our troubles out onto the pages of a notebook and this somehow leads to emotional epiphanies that sometimes do have real utility value in our lives- but the real magic of it all, I think, comes from the fear of discovery. When we put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) we are, in fact, translating electronic impulses firing systematically in our minds into characters that make up words, sentences, and paragraphs, which convey not only what surface information the words carry literally by definition, but also provide some understanding, however small, to the silent whirring of our minds, the language of which only we ourselves speak. We put parts of ourselves into everything we form; I believe it it is impossible not to.
But I digress. Massively, it seems. Still, I’ll write more, though I won’t ever be a writer. And I’ll hope, never secretly, that someone will read this.