There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed. Ernest Hemingway.
Writing is art. Some people hang it on the wall, others have it alive in their hearts and some, in their minds, become what they do. What is writing to you? Is it part of something bigger, or is it your little something that is bigger in its way?
Growing up, I learned to convert writing into expression. Whenever words of mouth failed me or I felt alone and not easy to understand or accommodate, I would fill my pages with emotions. For a long time, this is the side of writing that I clung so hard to, and still find myself often drifting to.
Over time, nonetheless, I have come to understand something beautiful—that at times, we do not express what we feel or go through ourselves, but what others and the society do. We carry what we see in our hearts and sometimes when the weight compels the hand, we write.
In ink, we travel to worlds we have not; imagination. We speak with and to people we cannot, and make memories that we may never live. Above all, however, it is through ink that we connect the world; sketch out society, live lives that different people do, and even bear feelings that are not our own.
An artist is not a sole creator—his job is to convey what divine he sees onto a page. We look at it, and it’s different for everyone. Some will love what we make, and some will not understand. Some will criticize, and others may never care. But someone somewhere gets the message, gets you, and feels you.
Creation can feel heavenly; all that power! But it will be lonely, the journey, and for the resulting work of art, it should always feel worth it.
A writer and his muse have only one job to do