Writing as Solitude: A Creative Journey into Self-Expression

If you're writing for others, it’s no different than taking pictures for others. One might argue: what is writing worth if not for the appreciation of others? But is that what motivated artists to create their great art? Surely, if it was, they failed, as many only reached fame after their deaths. So, is the motivation for posthumous fame? Isn’t that sad?

Or what if it’s not about others, but about the self—a desire to express oneself, something to say that must be said for oneself? As an ape throws its excrement at other apes, as a gorilla sniffs its finger after scratching its anus, I too could pick my nose or squeeze my scrotum while staring into nothingness, and that too would be a human experience. But I choose the puzzle of words, arranging one before another, for perhaps it’s my entertainment.

If I were alive in Van Gogh's time and walked past him painting in the fields, maybe I'd think, “What a hobo,” or perhaps, being nice, I'd think, “How nice, someone painting.” But what are the chances I'd think, “Holy crap, here’s one of the greatest painters ever”? Likely, I wouldn't have the capacity to appreciate the art unless he did a portrait of me or someone I knew. Yet, reducing artists to portraits is like reducing writers to note-takers.

Am I a writer if I write? We all write at one level or another, but I don’t wish to be labeled a writer, let alone an “author.” God, it sounds so cheesy and lame. “What do you do for a living?” “I’m an author.” Get out of here! What do you really do? I write for a living. Whatever magic other writers and authors feel when they say that, I don’t. Or poets or whatever.

I write; others scream and yell, others punch, some even kill and murder. I write to express my inner rage, my pain, sorrows, and disappointments. Perhaps it’s therapy, perhaps it’s an abuse of the English language, or language in general, but that’s why I write. “Fuck that guy” is much more healing to me when written than when spoken. When said, it eats at me a bit; when written, it relieves me.

So perhaps a paintbrush, a pen, or a keyboard is a tool of expression, and whether it’s appreciated or not is secondary.