Why Bother Writing?

Writing for the right reasons.

A couple of nights ago, I had a big talk with my mum. She’s an abstract painter, who successfully navigates both the artistic and business side of creating (very impressive). She does what she knows she should be doing to support her career. And by that, I mean Instagram, Facebook, Pinterest, Newsletters, a weekly marketing blog. All the usual soul-draining activities. She also has a yearning to do more than that, a tinge of desire that keeps creeping up every time we have one of our big talks. She tells me stories of her life, times of incredible bravery that inspire me every time I hear them, and I know that she has a longing to share these stories with the rest of the world. I want the rest of the world to hear them too.

But then come all the terrible questions our brains create. Does the world really need another person talking about themselves? Would I just be adding unnecessary noise to the internet? How would I figure out the business aspect of it? What if people react badly? What if people shame me? What if it’s not good enough? What if I’m not good enough? 

I listened to her express every fear and then I told her my advice. She needed to write for herself. Not to write for the purpose of marketing that might lead to painting sales, not to write whatever she thought people wanted to hear, but to write because there was a boiling of feelings inside of her and keeping them in felt worse than letting them out, no matter how people reacted. I told her to use writing as a form of therapy, the same way she’s written in her journals every day for the past 30 years. Because, if she was only writing for that purpose, it wouldn’t matter if nobody ever saw it, or if the quality was terrible (which I’m sure it won’t be), or if people left cruel comments, because she would be writing for her. 

As a second part of our discussion (or maybe by then it was the 48th) we talked about writing that meant so much to us, and realized most of it is works of great vulnerability. Writers that share openly and truthfully  about the mistakes they’ve made, with a level of such extreme humility you immediately trust the speaker. We didn’t shame them, or disrespect them. Rather, we understood them. We felt compassion for them. We heard their stories and wanted to hear more. 

And so, my mother has decided to write for herself, in whatever way she chooses to. The next day (yesterday) she asked if I would consider doing the same thing (I do want to be a writer after all). Immediately, I had my excuses ready. So funny how we forget what we were just teaching others. Well, it wouldn’t really benefit my career at this stage of my life. And I don’t even know what I would write about. And aren’t these sorts of things made for people who already have a following? 

And then I was thinking about it. And thinking about it. And thinking about it. And thinking Well . . . what if? What if I wrote just for me? What if I didn’t make it boring by creating marketing schedules, timelines, and social media platform-sharing nonsense? 

What if I wrote things that my future self needed to look back on and re-read? What if I wrote when my chest felt like it was about to explode with emotion? What if I was vulnerable and open, and too honest? What if I wrote just for me? 

So now I am sitting at the kitchen table typing away, and through the wall I can hear my mum furiously typing as well. 

Already, my heart is feeling lighter.