We write to be understood

Note: I use the plural “we” in this essay even though motivations for why anyone writes vary widely. I suppose I could just say “I” … but I strongly suspect others feel the same way. “We” facilitates connection and understanding.

If I go more than a day, maybe two, without writing, I start to feel ghostly. Incomplete, absent something vital I need to function as a human.

Writing infuses me with vitality. When I hit publish I am flush with spirit. My day is instantly better.

Pressing publish is key. Writing for an audience is qualitatively different than writing for yourself, for example a gratitude journal or a private essay that will never be read by anyone other than yourself. I do that kind of writing, and it’s important. But it’s ultimately not why I write.

The writing I enjoy combines subject matter mastery, self-discovery, and personal expression. I want people to experience the passion I feel for weird art, heavy metal, reading, and pop culture—the arcane arts that interest me. I hope my readers might learn something along the way, the distillation of my research and insight. And, ultimately (and maybe somewhat pretentiously, though I don’t really think so) I hope something I write might transform something in you. The way you understand the world, perhaps even yourself.

I don’t write fiction, but in my reading of fiction and biography of fiction writers I’ve come to see fiction as a window into the soul by writers who wish to be understood. Charles Saunders wrote blood-and-thunder stories of sword-and-sorcery adventure, but the character of Imaro said something about the author. Even writing “merely” to entertain says something of the writer, perhaps of the dissatisfying mundane world he or she inhabits or that entertainment and story provides something vital we need as humans. 

For 99.9% of us, writing is not a vocation to pursue if you want to get rich. You can make a living off of it, though it won’t be the aesthete in a well-furnished Victorian garret romanticism sort of writing perpetrated by the Hallmark channel. Businesses need people who can write (or did, pre-LLMs. Now they need people who can prompt). I have a good job that is +/- 50% writing full time. It pays the bills, and sometimes I can even put a little something of myself into otherwise dry and technical pieces of the healthcare mid-revenue cycle.

I wish I could write creatively, like I do here, full-time. But it’s not happening. If I had to survive on what I do in the creative side of my life I’d be living under a bridge. I’m very fortunate that I don’t need income from Flame and Crimson or freelance S&S pieces to pay my mortgage. 

But I do need to be understood. So I’m taking that a step farther with a very personal new book.

I’ve got a heavy metal-infused memoir in the edit/cover design stages. It will be published this year. I expect it to sell +/- 50 copies, though I plan to promote the heck out of it wherever I’m able. Not because I’m in it to make money. If it was about making money I’d be writing freelance blog posts and white papers for some healthcare website.

I want people to understand the life I’ve lived, the music I loved, the struggles I’ve endured, and still have, from time-to-time. I grew up with social anxiety and painful introversion. Being labelled as an introvert was once (and in some corners, still) used a pejorative. These traits harmed my relationships and put a few limits on my career. 

But today I accept this part of me, perhaps even cherish it. If I were not an introvert I might not have ever felt the need to set pen to paper. I can say things in writing that I have a hard time saying out loud. Writing about my experiences helped me heal, and I hope perhaps the act of reading them might help others as well.

That’s the power of writing.

So yes, I write to be understood. Maybe you do too. 

Keep writing.