September 15, 2020•217 words
Writing is a fascinating thing to do. Telling stories, imagining scenarios, trying to make somebody feel like they're in a different world. All through words that are written down. Without anybody delivering them. Because of that, everybody has their own version of the story, their own way of reading the words. No one piece of art can be interpreted the same way by hundreds. Everything can be anything.
A writer, an artist, can only suggest. We use tools making up our craft to suggest you, the dearest reader, things to think about. To imagine. To experience.
It's an unpredictable game, truly. Sometimes daunting; what if they won't understand me? The writer doesn't fear misinterpretation by the reader; she fears her own misinterpretation of her thoughts.
It's hard to write down exactly what you feel. Even harder to communicate how you're feeling it. Words are universal, experiences are not. Thus, the writing process is a hot mess. It's transformative for the writer; thoughts that used to be mere impressions are now solid written statements.
Sometimes the writer doesn't want to read their finished piece, worried that a manufactured version of their memories will replace the original one.
A writer's life is a novel within itself; a journey to and a journey within.
A journey that never ends.