The Necessity of Writing
Reflection: #44
Writing is something that I must do. I don't understand why, but it's an obsession, a drive I can't suppress.
Oftentimes (on the surface level anyway) I don't much enjoy the process of writing, although I immensely enjoy having done it. But there is a part of me, a shadow, a muse, or…something that longs to record thoughts, ideas, or stories and to put them to the “eternity” of the pen.
It matters not that eventually all of this, including our written words, will fade away to dust. Despite that, there is something “permanently” magical about taking invisible vibrations, brain patterns, thoughts out of one's head and birthing them into a real, physical form in the material universe…to, in a tiny way, co-create with the divine. And then to have those thoughts, in some form, reoccur in another person’s mind! It is a form of telepathy, a form of mind-melding, a form of magic.
I suppose this is what all art is about and, how I feel about writing must be how all artists feel about their medium of choice. All forms of art…painting, dance, novels, music…they all start as ideas of the universal consciousness we all share, yet we must birth them in space and time to share them, and the inspiration and energy they contain, with one another. We artists (and all of us, really) feel the drive to flavor the constantly changing universe in some tiny way with the spice of our individuality. Oh, the paradox of a non-duality reality that allows for individuality!
I read in one of Deepansh's bookmarks, "I think of a thousand things in a day, and I record one of them. I wonder why I do this and what will happen to the rest of my thoughts." I wonder the same thing myself!
The compelling act of writing that I must suffer and enjoy stems partly from that same fear: If I don’t record a thought on “paper” and share it, it might well have never happened. A silly notion, to be sure, but one that I, a silly man, can't shake.
So I sit down and I write. Some days the words flow effortlessly, such that I hardly realize that I'm "writing." Other days, I force my hands to the keyboard and start reluctantly typing nonsense until something coherent emerges. And that's actually pretty magical as well. I resist and procrastinate until I finally start, but most of the time, the muses do show up and somewhere in the vomiting up of words, a precious idea starts to form and somehow a theme emerges.
There is something mystical about the act of creation and so, that is what I do.
Our writing may turn to dust someday, but what we cannot know is how our words influence and affect those who read our work. Thomas Hardy may never have known it, but think of the countless readers who read “Far From the Madding Crowd” and as a result developed a deeper appreciation for the natural world. Words have meaning and sometimes consequences. They can change the trajectory of someone’s life, which in turn can influence society, and perhaps even history. This is why we must always choose our words wisely, as you have in today’s essay. Thanks, Clint.
I was reading this morning and felt the same. We are so lucky to be able to consume curated thought of a lifetime.
This world is reading less and less.
They are missing old treasures.