There are days you sit down to write and the screen stays blank. You sit in a nondescript chair in an unknown location and question yourself, what you’re writing, and who you’re writing it for.
Those days can suck your soul dry.
Maslow said “a musician must make music, an artist must paint, a poet must write if he is to be ultimately at peace with himself”.
I was the person sitting in the nondescript chair in the unknown location staring at a blank screen. Even my mind was — blank. I had no idea what to say. No idea why I was there. I certainly had no idea who I was supposed to be doing this for and then I realized how wrong I was.
You see, I’m not supposed to write for anyone. I’m supposed to write for me. Sitting in front of a screen, waiting for words to come for other people is how you can guarantee it will stay blank. My screen has been blank for quite a few weeks.
This evening, I’m making a point to sit here and write for myself. We will call it an exercise in practice. If someone happens upon this blog post and reads it, that’s great. If they don’t, that’s okay too.
You see, writing is about the writer. At least it is for me. I lost sight of that some time ago. My words are just that, they are mine. Writing is an exercise I should value. When I write for myself, I am allowed to experiment and find my soul in the words.
Is it important for writers to choose not to appeal to readers or markets? We inspect our feelings and the events that shaped us in order to make sense of life through what we write. This freedom allows us to create without abandon. I like creating, but I also like structure — which causes internal struggle.
For now, I will write for me. If I don’t, I’ll never write again.