Writing is like a stab in the dark, the results often more like trying to see the world through a poor camera lens on a cloudy, moonlit night than the crystal-clear image snapped by a fine, digital camera on a sunny day.
We writers are observers, and what we craft is our version of reality, a view colored by our individual experiences, our cultures, and the worlds in which we live. Some of us write for the love of language, for the poetic rhythms that only a fellow lover of words can truly appreciate. Others feel compelled by an inner message they wish to share or a story they just have to tell.
For the longest time, writers truly crafted in a sort of tunnel. Maybe, like the expatriates of Hemingway’s day, they found fellow wordsmiths with which to share fledgling works before finally publishing for a general audience. Many, like Dickens, found a sort of immediacy by publishing stories in installments in newspapers of the day. Today, we can gain responses to our writing in face-to-face groups, chat rooms, and blogs. The rapidity and ease with which we can express ourselves and get feedback sometimes tempts us into sharing a piece before its time.
Every writer needs a reader, else we might as well be standing at the edge of the ocean and scream into the wind, our words floating away and into nothing on the salty breeze. As a writer, it means something to get responses to what you have written. For one, you want to know if readers got the meaning out of your writing that you wanted them to get. For another, you want to know if what you are toiling to do well is actually making a difference. No one is an island. People need people.
Yet, no matter how much we share in this modern-day writing world, the craft of writing is most often a lonely business. Words flow best in the quiet, in the immersion of experience that only a set amount of time with just you and your blank computer screen allows as you delve into the depths of your brain for just the right turn of phrase or action to make your idea a reality.
“Find the right word,” Mark Twain advised, “not its second cousin.” That kind of dedication to creating a well-written work is really a rare quality. We can’t all create the great American novel.
But that doesn’t keep us from trying.