Sometimes I ask myself, “Why the hell do I spend so much time writing?” I like to think I’m a great writer.
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Sometimes I ask myself, “Why the hell do I spend so much time writing?”
I like to think I’m a great writer. Not in a self-congratulatory way, but in the sense that if someone else wrote what I write, I’d read it. I write because I believe these words should exist.
But lurking underneath that confidence is something more naïve: the belief that I can say something that actually matters. Maybe that’s foolish. Maybe it’s the most foolish thing of all. Because every time I start to think that way, I remember these lyrics:
The ones who love us best are the ones we’ll lay to rest
And visit their graves on holidays at best
The ones who love us least are the ones we’ll die to please
If it’s any consolation, I don’t begin to understand them
And that’s the rub, isn’t it?
I’m at the age where people are starting to disappear. Relatives. Friends. Names that used to light up my phone are now on tombstones. And I never connected with them as much as I should have.
Meanwhile, I’m here—on the Internet—pouring hours into transient relationships with people who may never think about me again. Investing everything into words that could vanish in a server crash. And yet, I keep doing it.
Maybe because writing is the only way I know how to leave a mark. Even if nobody’s looking.
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Sometimes I ask myself, “Why the hell do I spend so much time writing?”
I like to think I’m a great writer. Not in a self-congratulatory way, but in the sense that if someone else wrote what I write, I’d read it. I write because I believe these words should exist.
But lurking underneath that confidence is something more naïve: the belief that I can say something that actually matters. Maybe that’s foolish. Maybe it’s the most foolish thing of all. Because every time I start to think that way, I remember these lyrics:
The ones who love us best are the ones we’ll lay to rest
And visit their graves on holidays at best
The ones who love us least are the ones we’ll die to please
If it’s any consolation, I don’t begin to understand them
And that’s the rub, isn’t it?
I’m at the age where people are starting to disappear. Relatives. Friends. Names that used to light up my phone are now on tombstones. And I never connected with them as much as I should have.
Meanwhile, I’m here—on the Internet—pouring hours into transient relationships with people who may never think about me again. Investing everything into words that could vanish in a server crash. And yet, I keep doing it.
Maybe because writing is the only way I know how to leave a mark. Even if nobody’s looking.
@atomicpoet But somebody is looking! You've not only left a mark on me, you also influenced my writing, I'm more confident to express online now!
Following your work since we met online in 2023 (thanks to Sal, when you introduced a meetup group remotely to fedi).
I followed you here (since then) and enjoyed reading what you post coz it helped me think critically while learning new things!
I wanted my writing to impact people but i wasn't sure about my voice yet so I just kept reading YOUR posts, trying to figure out what made it so compelling!
Observing what resonated and why your style of posting works helped me determine what was working was that you were being your full uncensored self which made you authentic!
So there might be more people like me, lurking and watching what you post until they feel ready to ask to hop on a call with you (like me) LOL.
Each trying to find their own voice until they were ready to finally ask for your time.
Thank you for advising me on what to write and how!
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