Lyrics of the day: Love came along, it’s not to worry – Regular Town by New Navy
Hello again dear readers.
I have not disappeared! I just lost my motivation and had to go looking for it in all sorts of unlikely places. But it always comes back to this, doesn’t it?
The one thing I simultaneously love and hate the most about writing is the permanence.
When I write someone into my life, I believe their presence is forever, and that feeling is bliss.
When that person leaves you are left with not much more than that eternal piece of writing that hurts too much to even read anymore.
But when memory fails, the writing is always there to remind me that there were good times, and to remind me also of what I learnt from the bad times. As they say, you live and learn.
Writing is sometimes a struggle for people like me, who are perhaps too emotionally-driven. I recently met a girl who, like me, sometimes cries when she reads back her own work. The scariest thing about putting a piece of writing out there is wondering whether people will understand. Whether they will tear up at the bits that made you emotional, whether they will laugh at the things you thought were funny, and whether they will feel just as confused as you did through it all. I trust that some people will.
Writing is perhaps the most important skill that humanity has learnt through history, other than speaking of course.
Through writing we have eternalised dreams and disasters, genocides and victories, sins and miracles, truths and fables. From the very first stone carving to our beloved paperbacks. From the ancient papyrus to our modern kindles. Writing has been a tool to literally change lives.
They say that everyone has at least one good story in them, which I believe. But trying to write more than just one good story is as scary as trying to tread water for the first time. There’s always a chance you’ll drown. But I am in the business of daring, and whether writing can support me or not, it is one of the pleasures that I shan’t abdicate.
Many people think of us readers/writers as introverts and antisocial. Most of us are, from what I’ve seen. I would go as far as saying that we have a certain loneliness about ourselves which is not entirely bad, almost romantic.
This loneliness I think comes from absorbing our surroundings and internalising it all. Our form of socialising really occurs best between the paper and pen. Or between the keys on our laptop I guess. Everything is material. Every emotion has its own story, every building its own history, and every word its own meaning. Put together we could create thunderstorms and utopias. Even with the subtle recollection of yesterday’s work, one can extract enough power to move he who reads about it.
When you write, you don’t have to be the ‘you’ that society sees. You don’t even have to be a single person. You can be everyone, you can try everything, you can explore journeys far beyond your grasp and delve into dimensions perhaps never thought of before. Through writing we create portals that others can access, and be transported to wherever you wish to take them.
I’ve seen many people underestimate the power of writing, and dismiss it as ‘easy’. Perhaps to some it comes naturally, but there must be some credit given to being brave enough to pour out parts of yourself onto paper in the hopes that someone in this vast world will know exactly what you’re talking about, and will understand why it was so important for you to write it down in the first place. Like I said before, it’s the permanence.
Writing can bring people back to life. It can eternalise happiness. It can create love where there was only war.
Those who cannot do, teach. And those who cannot write, my advice to you is: read.