There are two drivers that act upon the writers I know, that compel them to practice writing. One, outcome-driven, and the other, internal.
We are blessed to read amazing work. The impact of writing, fiction & non-fiction, can be life-changing and mind-blowing. Writers share their work in the hope that, one day, they can produce something reality-altering for their readers.
A friend sent me a quotation from Cicero today, which was written more than 2000 years ago. The quote provided clarity and perspective on a problem I was facing in 2021. The well-ordered word can span millennia and traverse seas. That’s a lofty goal that ought to be nobody’s aspiration, but offers a sense of the arena you step into when you pick up the pen. Even the most modest work can become an artifact of sentiment. A feeling preserved in amber, and passed on.
In contrast to seeing writing as a way to share with the world, it is also a personal and intimate process. A cathartic experience. In our own hands we weigh worlds, and then set them aside. We take on other’s lives, and then forget them. It is a psychological escape, a purifying relief. Lives can be lived on the page, unbounded by the assumptions and restrictions that stiffen like collagen around our own realities. Beyond risk and possibility. Its benefits are quite uncorrelated to the words realised on the page.
Sometimes it’s easier to empty the cupboard, and assess everything as it lays on the counter.