I write, primarily, for myself: to vent feelings, to process changes, and to make meaning out of everything from monotony to madness. And somewhere along this writer’s journey (which began with a journal at the age of twenty), I envisioned a pot of gold at the end of the self-disclosure rainbow, which I now highly suspect was delusional thinking.
Perhaps, just perhaps, others might value my words enough to buy them, kinds of thoughts interrupted my self-absorbed use of the craft. Obviously, still focused on me, this idea redirected my course towards writing to encourage others through sharing my “experience, strength, and hope,” as the Twelve-Step Program describes passing on to others victories gleaned.
Somewhere along my writer’s journey, I also noticed droplets of inspiration and sought to capture with ink what splashed down to Earth from Heaven’s living streams.
Yet I always came back to writing in its purest form, which is, ironically, very selfish:
- The writer moves pen with what moves soul, and then feels the emotions again.
- The writer crafts worlds with the imagination, and then enjoys the play.
- The writer records personal and public history in hopes of improving the self and creating a safer tomorrow.
Yes, there is a very selfish side of writing we writers indulge in, whether or not we ever make a red cent for our efforts. And we shouldn’t feel ashamed—not one tiny bit—about this, because writing is what keeps us, and the world, sane!