On Writing

I can’t get past the idea of writing to impress. Every time I go to touch pen to paper I am held back with the fear of my ego. I want to write, but I am writing with hopes that it will entertain someone. That they will read it and say “oh! how good! how wonderful!” and I’ll sit there snivelling and pleased like a rat sniffing the air at the scent of self-affirmation.

Do I simply write plainly then? Do I absolve my writing of the frills and poeticism I attempt to invoke in it? Would the trimmed fat take with it my ego and transform my writing into the utilitarian tool it was meant to be? Would that then be better? Would my wtiting then reach its final fruition and become what is was meant to be - egoless? Is that what writing is supposed to be - writing for the sake of writing, writing for its intrinsic value, writing because it must be written rather than writing to give me purpose or to make me feel valuable.

Sometimes I am struck with ideas which I would like to write about, but then my motivation to put them to paper is abruptly haulted by a writing existentialism. Why should my writing bother to exist? I sit there, pen in hand, waiting for godot, staring at the page, and although I want to write I can’t overcome the persistent question of why I am doing this.

It all just seems so self-indulgent. Perhaps a pseudonym would help, but even then feelings of egotism would creep in - maybe even at a heightened intensity. I can search for meaning, purpose and benevolence in my writing and I will likely find it - thinly clutching to some poor-formed argument that attempts to reify my notions of purpose - but it will never feel satisfying. It will never wash that wave of contentment over me that the truth always does. I could say my writing entertains people, perhaps even helps people, that my writing is cathartic for me, therapeutic even, but the conceitedness of it will always sit on my shoulder and laugh in my ear as I attempt to obfuscate reality to create the truth I want.

You can call me cynical - and in a post-modern world rife with cynicism you can even call me unoriginal- but the fact remains that I don’t know why I’m doing this and neither do you. There are a couple of premises I am working with that remain unsatisfactory, but I will share:

1. I should write with a purpose. Write stories that attempt to elucidate something or fight for justice. That is the only way to write meaningfully.

2. Everything in life feels egotistical. Writing is simply just a microcosm of that and more readily brings the concept to the forefront of your mind. Writing for me has then become a struggle with the post-modern world in which art has become commercialized, egoized, and individualized (perhaps a succinct definition of our culture as well). In my reluctance to put pen to paper I am being halted by a broader struggle than simply my writing and me. I am being halted by our ego-centric culture.