To write, or not to write? That is the question I posted on July 14, 2007.
After years of reading my own writings whether email, or letter, I am of the opinion that unless you are trying to make people suffer it’s not worth writing anything, unless of course you have something important to write about. Continuing to question what I am doing here I just Googled three words “don’t write unless”: …. ‘Don’t write unless it’s genuine for you’…… ‘Don’t write when you’re too close to what you’re writing about’… ‘Don’t write unless you have to’……. ‘Don’t write unless you really, really have to’…. ‘Don’t write unless it feels like a hunger and a necessity’…… ‘Don’t write unless you are ready to acknowledge yourself a fool’…. ‘Don’t write unless you have some specific in your head that you want to say’……. ‘Don’t write unless you are in some desperate emotional situation that’s commands you to do it’ …. ‘Don’t gripe unless you have something to gripe about’. I should just stop here. How foolish can I be? I am not ready to acknowledge myself a fool, I don’t have too much to gripe about and I don’t really have to write. So why? In a nutshell: Writing is therapeutic, perhaps one of the best ways to reinforce hopes and dreams, which I would imagine is also the definition of fiction. More to the point, and why I am writing now is the fact that writing should be relaxing and entertaining as there is no end to everyday experiences. I haven’t thought of work once since I sat down here. The stress of work is on pause. Even if not a soul was to read my missives I suppose I’d still be content in a few years to revive past memories, which, whether good or bad, as a writer I will always be in control of.
Writing is now beginning to make sense. I shouldn’t fight writing. What do I care what anyone else thinks of my writings? So here is the deal. I am going to write for myself. What I write will probably be of little interest to you. Just remember the target audience is me. I don’t have a big ego, I don’t think what I have to write is important. I just want to make a note of my observations and see where all this leads to.. And if you think I am making sense or writing drivel please feel free to exercise your Freedom of Expression and tell me so.
[A poem handwritten by my late mother into the back of her address book during the time she lived in Hempstead, London in the late 1940s / early 1950s]
“The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.”
– “The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam”, by Omar Khayyam (Circ 12th Century)