One of my critique partners asked us a question, this week. “If you were stranded on a deserted island, with no hopes of a reader, would you still write?”
The four of us gave the same answer : YES, because we love to read our own words, over and over again. One of us even reminded us of that woman in The Importance of Being Earnest who says that she always brings her diary on the train, so if she gets bored, she’ll have something “sensational” to read. I suppose it is crucial for writers to be able to read their own words endlessly – I didn’t say to fall in love with our own words, because that is definitely not recommended – or none of us could ever revise, and what is writing, if not endlessly revising?
For me, writing is also the best way I know of sorting out my thoughts and feelings. Whether it comes out – subconsciously or not – in a fiction format, or as confidences in letters to a friend, writing helps me sort out the clutter, up and in there. It always has.
How about the other writers who read this, out there? Would you still write, even if you were stranted on a deserted island, with no hopes of anyone ever reading your words?