Outlet

on writing and why

Dec 01, 2025

I love writing. It is the brightest, happiest part of me. When I say I love writing, I’m not saying my writing is worth loving. It’s a deeply personal thing. It’s nice if others like or even love what I write but I’m not concerned with that. I like the gradual stream of thought flowing into the pool that is paper or screen and taking shape in words; a little island of my own making. (I will not miss an opportunity for a music reference even if that particular Parton and Rogers song isn’t something I’m fond of).

Expressing is intrinsic and essential to us and the inability to do so is a major cause of frustration, anxiety, anger, insecurity. An outlet for expression is a lead into a healthier mind I think, more so if it can happen with regularity. People find it in music, in painting, in dance, in maths; there are many. Mine is in writing. I’m happy when people read what I write, more when they react to it even if with a criticism. I’m thankful to those of you who read; it’s something I do not take for granted. But my happiness is not guided by or dependent on that. I take joy in the act itself and satisfaction in putting it out there. Like potters with their craft and wares, I move on to building that next island. There’s a message in it for writers here who get frustrated with the shortage of attention for their publishings; writing is the must-have, readership and reaction are the nice-to-have. The first is entirely in your control and the second is something you can work at consciously and sensibly to increase if that’s what you want with the acceptance that there is no guarantee.

My writing is one thing that I’m not hard on myself. That is not to say I’m blind to its flaws and my inadequacies; I’m aware of those. Like other aspects of my life, I keep trying to find ways to be better but unlike everything else I’m not tough on me for those. Through this I’ve learned to love myself a little. That’s a good thing I think.

Last night I listened to music with intent and attention and love and care after years. I thought I had lost that. Maybe I have, in the long run. But last night I was lithe and light and bright-eyed. Last night I was alive.