Indulge in the Selfish Side of Writing

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 my 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. While obviously still focused on me, this idea did redirect 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 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!

 

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