Talking About Writing.

At a crowded art show, my friend and I found ourselves sitting at a table at the end of the evening talking about writing. Somehow, separately, we had both landed upon the resolution to explore our writing practice. Neither of us is what we think of as a “writer”. But what is a writer, except someone who writes? And whatever your reason for writing, if you write, aren’t you therefore a writer?

Why we write is more complicated. Does writing have to be read? Are you a writer if you’re writing only for yourself? I think I’m writing for myself, but why? Because I have something in my head that needs to come out. Because writing is the way I make sense of my thoughts, of the world. The same reason artists make art, I guess, but I never felt important enough to label myself an artist. I was happy enough to be “creative”.

Do I want someone to read what I write? Is it vanity to want that? After all, wouldn’t it be nice for someone to (metaphorically) pat you on the back and say “aren’t you a great writer”? But, to me, it depends on whether you can sufficiently detach yourself from your work and release it into the wild. I think when you do that, the work is no longer your own. It becomes something for someone else to read and interpret and, just maybe, find their own meaning in. Those are the magical moment that make writing, and publishing, something worth taking a risk on.