I’m going to take you back now to when you were a teenager, sitting on your bed personal cassette player (remember those) or scribbling away in you diary? The door opens and mum comes in with some washing to put away or little sister comes in just to be annoying. You scramble to stuff your treasured little book under the pillow before anyone guesses what you’re up to.
I have pretty much the same reaction now if someone comes into the room when I’m writing bits of novel or writing a MySpace blog. You wouldn’t believe how lightening fast my reflexes are when it comes to clicking the ‘minimise’ button. After all, it’s a very personal thing isn’t it, writing? Almost like parading naked in front of someone. You need to be in control of where and when it happens.
But why, if we are uncomfortable about being read, do we write it down at all?
In Josie’s blog ‘Another Magpie’s Nest’ she quite rightly asserts, “I write to be read.” And I think that’s true. Hands up all of you diary keepers who fantasised about that unrequited love picking up your little tomes and discovering the depths of your passion…just after you’d been run over by a bus. He’d then have to live in bitter regret for the rest of his life mourning the love that never was. Or those parents who didn’t understand you, reading the thing…just after you’d run away from home. They’d be there on the TV press conference, eaten-up with remorse vowing to change their ways if only you’d come home. All a bit teenage and naive. But I’m right aren’t I? There was a part of you that secretly yearned for someone to read it. If nothing else you want the futuristic equivalents of Tony Robinson and Phil Harding to dig it up study it as a piece of archaeological evidence long after you’d started the daisy pushing.
I’m sure many writers have role models. One of mine has to be Michael Palin. I find the sheer breadth of his writing achievements astounding. (But maybe that’s another blog.) Knowing I was a bit of a Python fan, my sister bought me a copy of his recently published diaries. There were lots of fascinating insights into the life of a professional writer. However, there was one little bit in the introduction that really struck a chord. Discussing his reasons for keeping a diary, Palin says he encountered “a nagging feeling that it was a small failure to let life go by without in some way documenting it.”
I remember yelling at the page, “that’s it…that is absolutely it!!!”
People write for the same reason they fill albums with photos, the same reason why societies keep intricate records of births, marriages and deaths: it’s to secure our own little slice of history, to make sure that we, and the things that buzz about in our heads, never disappear without a trace.
I remember one day walking home from school with a friend of mine. He wanted to be an actor. When asked why, he explained that he wanted to be famous. Not for the sake of fame but so that when he died people would know who he was. “If you die and no one remembers you, then what’s the point?”
I think at the tender age of 14, the depth of the comment was maybe lost on me. I have dwelt on it as the years have gone by, however. (Those of you who know the story behind ‘Heading South’ will understand why it has had particular resonance these last couple of years.)
Even if you are writing fiction rather than diaries or blogs, you draw on your own experiences and emotions. Even fiction writing is woven together by a little thread of the person who created it. And if you’re lucky enough to get published, then that little piece of yourself gets put in a nice glossy cover with an ISBN number on the back. How cool is that?
So, is Josie right, do we write to be read? Absolutely! We write in the hope that one day someone somewhere will pick up our scribblings and be conscious of our existence. Think about it…some stranger somewhere with your book or blog or whatever it happens to be nodding their head in understanding as they make a connection with something you wrote.
That’s why we write.
Catherine.
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