You always hear about how writing is such a lonely art, but I’ve never understood why in the hell it has to be, especially in this day and age.
From my very first forays into writing regularly and posting it publicly, I used it as a vehicle with which to make friends, and I quickly couldn’t imagine writing without such a support group. Working to gain readership is all very well and good, of course, but to me even some vast sprawling ‘readership’ has nothing on sitting down and being able to tell stories to your friends.
Except then, over the past several years, I watched almost every single one of those friendships crumble, becoming nothing but stories in their own rights — except for the fact that now, there is no one left to tell them to.
All in all, it made me wake up this morning, wondering whether it would even be worth it to keep on writing at all, if this trend continued. I think I prefer the term ‘storyteller’ to ‘writer’ at the end of the day, and so without anyone left to tell stories to…
And then my brain laughed rather loudly at me, and by the time I was on the train to work I had two new characters banging about merrily on the inside of it to say hello. A few hours after that, they were telling me their stories and I busied myself committing them to paper and suddenly there was nothing lonely about any of this at all.
There’s a sort of symbiosis to stories, even when you’re the teller and seemingly quiet and alone. They have to come from somewhere, and even the teller has to ‘hear’ them first.
Stories for stories’ sake, when all is said and done. If that isn’t what’s important, I don’t know what is.
And these kinds of stories, the stories that fight to be heard, will fight to be heard by an even larger audience, anyway. So perhaps it really is only a matter of time before another tight-knit little story-circle builts itself.
I’ll busy myself making sure I gather lots and lots of stories to offer it, in the meantime. ♥