At Dusk I Reign
Sage
Writing, they say, is a lonely business. You sit at a keyboard (or, for those of a certain vintage, with pen and paper) and delve deep into the imagination, hoping to uncover something which has so far remained disguised from others. Unless you're collaborating on a project there's no one to turn to: others can provide feedback (positive or negative), but like dying the act of literary creation is a singular experience. It can be dissected but never truly shared, critiqued but never truly understood.
That's its magic. That's what makes it fun.
Okay, I may well be alone in this (it wouldn't be the first time I've found myself out of step: the drummer I march to frequently misses the beat and wanders down cul-de-sacs). I don't believe I am, though.
Some things just shouldn't be shared. They're personal, impervious to the herd mentality, requiring neither approval nor derision.
Writing is one of them.
Yes it can be a solitary experience as you tap away, sometimes cursing the gods, sometimes thanking them for sending a muse with which to set the page alight. That's no bad thing, though. It can even be good for the soul. Whether it be fishing, walking, or sitting at a desk and staring out the window in a world of your own, such things allow the mind to stretch itself, to cleanse and renew.
We live in a busy world. Chatter comes from all sides, be it friends, family, or random strangers it's impolite to throw random foodstuffs at. Writing provides a shell, an impervious shield which deflects mundane reality and allows the bearer to concentrate on the things which really matter.
We're not just flesh and bone, nutrients for the soil. We dream. We imagine. Even surrounded by a throng, the thoughts which flicker through our brains are peculiar to us alone.
Lonely? Not a bit. Even in a room by myself I've got a host of characters in my brain which no one else has ever thought of to keep me company: they may not be real, but what use has a fantasist for reality?
As a writer, someone who's suffered the heat of the artistic forge, do you ever feel isolated? Or, like me, do you revel in the opportunity to wander landscapes without any outside interference? Do tell.
That's its magic. That's what makes it fun.
Okay, I may well be alone in this (it wouldn't be the first time I've found myself out of step: the drummer I march to frequently misses the beat and wanders down cul-de-sacs). I don't believe I am, though.
Some things just shouldn't be shared. They're personal, impervious to the herd mentality, requiring neither approval nor derision.
Writing is one of them.
Yes it can be a solitary experience as you tap away, sometimes cursing the gods, sometimes thanking them for sending a muse with which to set the page alight. That's no bad thing, though. It can even be good for the soul. Whether it be fishing, walking, or sitting at a desk and staring out the window in a world of your own, such things allow the mind to stretch itself, to cleanse and renew.
We live in a busy world. Chatter comes from all sides, be it friends, family, or random strangers it's impolite to throw random foodstuffs at. Writing provides a shell, an impervious shield which deflects mundane reality and allows the bearer to concentrate on the things which really matter.
We're not just flesh and bone, nutrients for the soil. We dream. We imagine. Even surrounded by a throng, the thoughts which flicker through our brains are peculiar to us alone.
Lonely? Not a bit. Even in a room by myself I've got a host of characters in my brain which no one else has ever thought of to keep me company: they may not be real, but what use has a fantasist for reality?
As a writer, someone who's suffered the heat of the artistic forge, do you ever feel isolated? Or, like me, do you revel in the opportunity to wander landscapes without any outside interference? Do tell.