Writers write to be read.
We have something to say and a good reason for saying it. Listen up, you’ll learn something.
But maybe there’s one other reason for doing it, perhaps even more important.
To connect with others.
To bridge our overly thoughtful, introverted selves with another human being. And have them understand some small part of who we are, that we’ve done an amazing job keeping hidden, even from those we share a life with.
Writing words on paper is like saying words into a mirror — meaningless and incomplete until someone hears them. Until that connection is made and a little bit of the pain that’s stored inside all of us escapes and crawls across the line to a place way over there and turns into understanding.
Then we can sigh a little deeper, feel the release from whatever was holding us a little too tight, and begin to breathe again, like we did when we were children.
In sad songs or crazy Mad Max screenplays, the process is the same. Words are enlivened with real emotions and those are conveyed on fragile things called communication lines that run across the universe.
Billions and billions of them link every soul to one another so that when we’re ready when the feelings we’ve been holding back and trying to sort out for ourselves finally reach critical mass, we can escape from them in great jarring moments that bring us a little peace of mind.
We all talk, probably too much, and often about things that are canned, inappropriate, or fixed to opinions we don’t really share but feel compelled to agree with.
So, we edit ourselves. We draw blue lines through all sorts of ideas and feelings and cancel them out before they ever get said. But the kicker is, they’re all still in there.
Waiting patiently for the right moment to jump out, into some random conversation, or awkward moment.
Writers resemble most humans pretty closely. The same requisite pair of eyes and ears; a single nose and mouth, and with or without hair. Living their lives as best they can, while adjusting to the more painful aspects of it by going quiet.
Withdrawing into small spaces deep within and generally saying less than they should but more than most and asking, quite courageously, for as many people out there as possible to have a close look.
To engage, like, dislike, regret reading, thoroughly enjoy but most of all to please, please remain in place and stay willing because there’s more on the way.
It ain’t easy being vulnerable or authentic. Two words that have been trending of late and becoming more a valid sign of advancement as far as humans are concerned.
But isn’t being truly vulnerable less a factor of willingness on the part of an average person and more a factor of having a safe place to be it?
No one likes to have the “palm of silence” raised in front of their face when we’ve crossed some imaginary line and start saying things better left where they originated. In the dark recesses of one’s mind where most incorrect things are stored and eventually repurposed into insight shared with a therapist.
Writers challenge themselves by taking a scalpel to their chests, exposing their hearts, and while cringing just a little, say to everyone out there — okay take your best shot.
And then we do it again and again without masochism ever playing a role — okay maybe once in a while.
But only for short periods in between stories, while showering, gardening, or otherwise breaching the defenses lovingly installed within our psyches to protect what’s left of our self-respect after a lifetime of living normally in this crazy world.
But writing, putting thoughts down into sentences. Erasing words and phrases and putting new ones in their place, just so the thought we had inside can exit gracefully into its new home, inside another person’s mind.
That’s our challenge and our greatest fear because we like to think we understand what we’re saying. We did our research, ruminated on the data for the required amount of time, and had it all coalesce into something brilliant before we said a word.
But that’s often not the case because no words are perfect. No truth is easily corralled into one or two sentences ready-made for consumption.
Mistakes are common. Better ways of saying it are always found after the fact. Doubts creep in when what we post gets the same response as the mailman delivering bills to our door and we begin — all over again -wondering why we write in the first place.
Aren’t there other ways to abuse ourselves that are less humiliating, and less destructive to what’s left of our self-esteem? And if there were, would we go with them instead?
Probably not.
And while we are out there on the edge, that perilous place without much room for error or second chances, we often see things that others miss. Not because they don’t have the ability or common sense to observe what we observe but because they’re busy doing something else.
Living, grieving, breaking up, and getting back together. Or standing in the unemployment line wondering where they put their hopes and dreams and if they accidentally sold them during their last garage sale.
So, many times it’s left up to writers to stick their face into the propeller. To ignore the whistling sounds of danger and keep moving forward in the hopes that something good will come of it and also because they don’t really have a choice.
Not writing when we feel compelled to do so, is like not peeing after consuming two Big Gulps on the way to your in-law’s house. It’s either stop or clean up a godawful mess in your new car.
The options are limited.
Most people think writers write for the money. Because writers are like hedge fund managers or people whose last names end in Bezos or Gates and have high bank account balances and more streaming in, and simply enjoy not having to work every day like everyone else.
That would be nice.
But that’s far from the truth. So, if it isn’t money then why go through the effort? Why endure the rejection, the self-doubt, and endless hours staring at an empty screen while agita rips through your gastrointestinal tract?
See above.
Most writers are introverts. We make the shy quiet types look like Broadway performers singing in line at Starbucks — just because.
When we write, we live a little closer to the light. Become a little more focused. A bit more able to laugh without feeling guilty that others might not approve of someone chuckling at their own jokes.
We come alive more often without coffee or other stimulants and actually think life is okay more than once a week.
And as the words begin to flow outward and the sentences get formed into something interesting and maybe even funny, our backs straighten up a bit. Our hearts don’t beat any faster just more fully and our outlooks on life, that part of it that is still available to us, becomes brighter and more in focus.
Now we’re w-r-i-t-i-n-g. Now we’re in that flow state, that moment of creation that to some might resemble an orgasm but without all the sweat and clean-up afterward.
A place we enjoy going to, loathe to leave, and would love to be able to purchase a condo there, but none are currently available.
It drags us along hour after hour and if we’re lucky with a little left over to start the next day.
We’re talking — not to anyone in the room, but to everyone out there. Broadly. Eloquently when we’re at our best. Honestly and feel hopeful when a connection is made that our thoughts and ideas, however silly or inconsequential they may seem to some, will actually make someone feel something.
Like laughing or crying or getting angry — but at the right target.
Or in most cases, just feel distracted, entertained, and able to put down that article or book, take up their lives once again with a renewed sense of hope, or just a little less tired and carry on.
Writers can be dangerous. We’ll spew all sorts of crazy things and believe — we can be devout believers — that what we’re saying must be listened to because all sorts of bad things will happen if you don’t.
And sometimes that’s true. Sometimes we get it right, I mean really right and there it is, the truth, laid out in short sentences, easy to read and hopefully paid attention to, because remember, we’re out here on the edge observing.
Watching and not doing all that much else, because that’s how we’re wired. We’ll eschew long stints watching sports or walking the aisles at Costco looking for stuffed olives. We’ll espouse the importance of paying close attention to the things no one wants to look at because the devil is in the details.
And it’s also where the harshness of reality bites hardest and does the most damage.
The truth at its whimsical best and its cutting worst is nothing more than — what is — in concentrated form, undiluted, and ingested at alarming rates so that some of it, a small carefully crafted portion will make it onto the page for others to see.
Writers write to be read.
To look up from our pages into your eyes and say — hope you like it, I wrote it just for you.