A Letter to Writers

Dear Writer,

I don’t know why I am only just realising this, as it seems so very obvious, but I think that writing may be the most difficult art to make a living from. I’m not saying this to put you off of writing, or becoming an author. And I’m certainly not saying this to be negative for the sake of it. Let me explain.

Writing is the most difficult of all the arts to have genius recognised in. Because in order to recognise the genius of a piece of writing, one must actually sit, concentrate and read the words. Which might take thirty minutes or several hours or even days or weeks.

Whereas a song can be recognised as genius in three minutes. A movie in two hours. A painting in seconds. A dance in a few minutes or more.

But writing demands time. And in this world of constant information overload, time is of short supply. Or so it would appear. And so if someone takes the time to read your words, it is truly an honour, because they are saying – your words are worth more to me than several movies or several hours of social media.

As a writer, it is harder to be ‘discovered’. To have that magic moment when someone spots your genius and tells the world about it. You can’t go on a talent show or do a video that goes viral on YouTube.

All you can do is keep writing, and keep hoping that your words will hit the spot for enough people that the word will spread that your words are worth the time and effort they take to consume.

Of course, you will still always hope that one day you will reach that tipping point where every time you hit publish, you sell several thousand copies straight off the bat, and not just a handful. But until then, you keep writing, because you were not born to be a singer or dancer or a movie star.

You were born to be a writer.

So fall in love with the difficulty, the struggle and the stress that comes with this work. Because I promise you, it will be worth it in the end.

Much love,

A writer.

Image – James Pond (Unsplash)

Digital Immortality

Life on Earth was intended to be fleeting.

Our journeys from birth to death, and the transitions through many stages and ages, were to be experienced then discarded and forgotten. We are eternal beings. Our mission here on Earth was to experience the finite nature of humanity.

But the birth of the internet changed all of that.

No longer are the tiny minutiae of our daily lives simply experienced and discarded, by only ourselves and those who are physically present. Now they are recorded, shared, stored and kept (possibly in a country-sized bunker somewhere) for all of time.

The photo of you at seven years old with paint on your face will live in a cloud forever. The ex you dumped ten years ago can still follow your life as if they were still in it. The drunken tweet you posted can cost you the job you really want, even fifteen years after the posting.

Human beings hunger for immortality. To live forever is the ultimate goal. But we’ve forgotten that we do live forever.

Just not in this particular body the whole time.

But the actions, thoughts, meals and nights out that we have experienced in this body may well live forever.

 

Is digital immortality really what we want? To be known forever for the pictures of things we ate, books we read or songs we like? Is it not enough to just share the moment with the people right in front of us, or even just with ourselves?

Would it not be better to be known for an act of kindness, a job well done or a long, healing hug? Or for writing a book that has moved people? Helped them?

 

Part of my need to write books is to be remembered. To leave a legacy of some kind when my soul leaves this body and moves onto the next adventure. The idea that a photo of my gluten-free vegan meal might be remembered more than my novels hurts me. So you can expect less banality and more creativity from me from this point onward. Because I came here to write.

And that is what I intend to do.