Doing what feels write

“I am a writer”. An article I read about writing points out that it’s pretty hard to become a writer without having said or written this sentence at some point, and encourages new writers to start by writing it and building from there. (In fact, that’s how I started this post.)

But why am I a writer? What is it that motivates me to record my thoughts, and publish them? I think it’s my desire to share myself with others. While I enjoy being on my own at times, I don’t like being lonely. If I can tell other people what I’m thinking, what I’m feeling, then I don’t feel unseen. I feel like I’m cared for. And I feel safer, because it’s less likely that others will misunderstand my actions and words as insensitive or unkind.

Sharing myself with others is something I’m driven to do. I’m quite talkative, and I’m entirely capable of talking your ear off. I’ve gotten better about it; I can be rather perceptive, and I try to check often with my listeners to make sure I’m not taking more than my share of time. And I think people usually enjoy talking with me. But still the opportunities to share are dwarfed by what I have to share.

Blogging feels different. I don’t feel like I’m keeping you captive because you’re afraid to insult me by walking away mid-conversation. You are welcome here, but I don’t want to trap you here. I don’t want to draw you in with

I really don’t. But I do yearn to be heard.

It’s more likely that I’ll stay small, I think. There are so many people out there competing for attention, there’s so much content to consume. I certainly can’t assume that many people will be drawn to my ideas, or that they’ll stick around. And I do want them to. Despite my belief that fame, success, and wealth are probably bad for you, I still seem to want these things.

So I’ll write

If you are reading this, thank you! I appreciate you. It’s an amorphous, uncertain appreciation. I don’t know who’s going to read this, or when. Perhaps I’ll get traction somewhere, somewhen, somehow, and people will flock to this and other posts. If it happens, perhaps by then I will no longer be quite the same person I am now, the one writing this.

For you who are reading this (hi Mom! for one) what does that feel like, for you and for me? What is it like, to have an audience spread out across time? What is it like, to be a part of that audience? We are connected through this medium by tenuous strands, you with me, you with each other. If you pluck the strands of my web, will I feel it? If you fell a tree in the forest of my imagination, will I hear it? And if I don’t, is that tree even a part of my reality?

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