I’m working on a story that started out with a simple, kind of whimsical idea but evolved into something entirely different from my original concept. The place it’s gone is very personal, and I suddenly realize I’m processing the death of someone I loved.
Which brings me to the purpose of this post – is writing a way for us to try and understand life? This makes sense to me, if for no other reason than it would explain why some of us are compelled to do something that makes no sense.
I mean, let’s be real. Sure, it’d be great to be published, but what exactly would that mean? If it meant that someone would actually read what you wrote and gain something from it that would enrich their life, then by all means pursue that goal with everything you can muster. But you’re speculating that this stuff you care about so deeply will mean something to someone else, and the truth is it may not.
So if getting published is your primary motivation to write, you’re kind of fucked, aren’t you? Because if you never get published, then what? Was it all for nothing?
I don’t think so. There is something weirdly satisfying about writing – like it’s cleaning out your brain, organizing your thoughts into something that makes sense to you. Rearranging reality if you will.
I’m starting to notice this in my work – themes that keep re-emerging, like my mind is trying to process troubling events.
Whether I want it to or not. This isn’t good or bad, but it does provide for a very valid reason to write.
To better understand who you are, and maybe even your place in the world.