Writing. Interestingly enough, in my opinion, I have entered this medium of expression in order to explore myself as a writer and yet it very quickly causes me to confront what I normally avoid: the question of ‘why?’ and the background motivations. Simply, I like writing; why? What first attracted me was the idea of commentary, that I could submit a work of writing into the literate world for its/their general review and personal opinion on it. The second idea, a much more narcissistic one, was the idea of immortality. If I publish something, that is a part of me that is out there for decades. Even if it is only in the back of a second-rate library, it’s the kind of mark that I would look favorably on leaving behind. This would be a specific, impersonal sense of immortality, not of myself or my name- I couldn’t give a fuck whether a piece carries my name of the front or my face on the back- but of my ideas. Writing still symbolizes and embodies much more. It is, in a sense, unbridled creation fused with near infinite possibilities. Beyond that I wasn’t too sure of what I was looking for in the field of writing, and that thought scares me. As I reflect on it now, especially in relation to my indifference to personal recognition, I realize the one matter that I’m overlooking: validation. On one of the most primal levels I’m looking for validation. I’m looking to see if my words, my thoughts, my ideas, even make sense. It’s one matter to sit at a keyboard and ramble thousands of words, and quite a different one to hand them off to someone else for their review. While the former serves as a beautifully relieving form of catharsis, the latter serves its own purpose. Personal journalistic writing serves the purpose of venting emotion while opening one’s thoughts to the world is useful for what I’m trying to accomplish, the final matter of writing that had eluded me: honest reflection.
November 25, 2011