I will talk about this only this once, just so it is known and on the record: knowing that someone reads what you’ve written, family, friends or even strangers, is very surreal.
I mean, there’s a point when I don’t just write for myself anymore. I will always do that first and foremost, write for myself, not so much in order to then read my own words, but in order to write – obviously, you should know that by now and if you’re just joining the party, which is what it seems to become, then you know now.
But a writer, who doesn’t want to share his or her writing and doesn’t want to be read, well… that doesn’t sound right, does it?
Many people write. Most people don’t want to be published, however. Most people like music, few want to be a musician or a singer. Everyone likes the idea of travelling around the world, very few actually do it.
That is what it comes down to, isn’t it? Just because you like something, doesn’t mean you need to pursue it. You must, must, must. And hope, openly or secretly, that someone will like it, will appreciate it, will read your words, listen to your music, envy your stories of foreign lands, eat your cakes, or hang your painting on their wall.
But once it happens, once your cake is being eaten, the CD is burned and sold, the painting paid and hung, or at the very least exhibited, the book accepted for publication or, in my case, the blog is read, it is the strangest sensation and you have to wonder how you did it. How did I get someone to read what I wrote?
Well, I put it out there. That’s the most essential bit.
So this is the point when I start writing for you. That wasn’t how it started, but it is what it has become. And I don’t think I can go back now. I don’t want to, for that matter.
I admit that I do have this nagging doubt of coming across as self-indulgent, or when I post my next blog on Facebook and Twitter, I might seem awfully narcissistic, because: who does that?
But I started doing it to put myself out there, which was the worst thing I could have done, to let others see me, the me they don’t know. I chose, but had no choice. I needed to do that, because there was nothing else I could’ve done. If I want to be a writer, I must write and I have to put it all out there, because it’s not worth anything, if no one reads it, if no one knows about it.
What is a writer without a voice? Silent, unheard, unwritten.
What is a photographer without a camera? Blind, unseeing and unseen.
Somebody will read this and understand. And it is for you I write this. Not just myself. I write this for the one, who doesn’t know, who’s never been shown and lacks understanding. This is why I do what I do.
Why do you do what you do? What is it you do? I hope that, whatever it is, you love it as much as I love this.
On another, related, note, I may have to actually start another blog, because I keep finding a lot of topics lately that I feel quite strongly about. But this blog is usually not very topical. I suppose it has more of a journal quality.
I’ll think on that some more and get some writing started. Let’s see.
In conclusion: it is very strange to know someone reads this. Humbling to be told they like it. The only way I can honour your opinion is by continuing. And however many times I invited it, no one has yet felt the need to say something unpleasant to me.
That means at the very least I haven’t offended anyone’s opinion or tastes enough that they felt the need to comment negatively, which is somewhat of a relief.