The love of writing

Now that I’m offline and not sharing my material, I’ve no idea if anyone will (ever) read this post.

And I’m fine with that.

You might ask, though:

Why bother?

Because I like to write. Sure, it doesn’t have to be here which technically, I suppose, is a breach of my (self-imposed) embargo on social media but a blog (don’t ask me why) feels different. It sounds a bit woo-woo but it feels like I’m conversing with the Universe. No, not necessarily that one, but the one that circles the compass of my life.

Isn’t that strange?

Not really. I’m sure you’ve felt the need, be it a diary or a few jottings, to get from your head something, at the time, that feels or is important or you need to see ‘it’ in writing; and you’ve connected with your muse.

But there’s also the love of writing. The pure pleasure of seeing one word, then another and a whole sentence etc. develop. Of course my ego’s involved — and I’m not ashamed to admit that — but it’s also very cathartic.

Previously, certainly here and elsewhere, I’m sure I had this not-so-secret wish to grow my audience, be recognised for my work and to eventually make money from my writing. That’s all gone away, and I feel blessed that it has. And so, henceforth, if I do show up to write, which might be weekly or monthly — who knows — I’ll be writing for the pure pleasure of it.

Take care,