The long silence over, I am back at my keyboard. I am back to try and keep up a "dialogue" with whoever is reading this out there. I must confess, though, that I have been thinking long and hard about the loneliness of writing. And I have reached no conclusive answer. I do have an inkling, however.
I have always loved both reading and writing. I have loved the intimacy, the quiet it brings, the doors it opens - French windows allowing access to a fantastic landscape of improbable possibilities. It is a haven, a bolthole, a hideaway from the world around, from the pressures of daily life, from triggers of frustration. What, then, has made it different and changed my comfy sofa by a warming fire into a jagged rock on the side of a mountain? I believe it is related to my decision to engage in writing on a "serious" basis. This blog, which I started with the intention of updating twice a week, at least, means my optional escape is now a demanding stage.
I suppose I feel lonely because what earlier on meant holding on to my childish avoidance, is at this point a head-on acceptance of adult responsibility. I have a responsibility to myself, to my writing, to those of you who have decided to read. So,writing is not an "away from trouble" place anymore, but a "facing troubles" state. My lovely friend told me she had felt the writer loneliness when she was writing her thesis. I suppose these are growing pains, a bit delayed.
Funnily, as soon as I thought about this (a little while back), it stopped being such a lonely place. Scary, exposed, silent - all those adjectives, for sure, can be applied. It might not matter, then, why writing has to be done alone, why it might be lonely at times, why it might encroach on the times of personal silence.
Such is my promise, and so I am bound.
Geez, it sounds nearly Shakespearean...
No comments:
Post a Comment