What’s the point of writing if there isn’t anyone reading?

Writer

What’s the point of writing if there isn’t anyone reading?

I ask myself this question regularly, maybe even a few times a week.  I sit in my office with my laptop staring right back at me as I look at it in hopes that one morning I will actually have the answer.  Why in the world do I spend hours each week sitting here writing?  I am certainly not in it for the money, since at the moment like so many others I am not getting paid to blog, not getting paid for the hours of time I spend trying to come up with something witty to say to my imaginary friends and fellow bloggers.

So why the hell am I still doing this?

Polish_Wikinews_header_imageI could be working harder in my little shop of horrors, where I actually do make monsters, and making more money.  I could be volunteering more time in my community and doing something eventful with my life.  I could take up the wild world of gardening and attempt to turn my garden into some sort of living showcase of plants and bug life.  However still I sit here looking at my blog and knowing that I just won’t be able to walk away from it.

The truth is, I love writing.  I love the art of words and the crafting of sentences.  I love the songs that my heart sings when I am deeply involved in a good piece.  I need to write because it makes me happy.

I know that the odds of me actually getting something published are not very good.  Especially when I haven’t got the solid nerve to actually write the story that I have a need to write. So I practice,practice, practice.  I write little articles, let the words keep moving through my fingers, and move towards that dream of one day having that moment where my true desires burst out of me.

But… what’s the point of writing if there isn’t anyone reading?

Perhaps the answer lies here.

“All writers are vain, selfish, and lazy, and at the very bottom of their motives there lies a mystery. Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand. For all one knows that demon is simply the same instinct that makes a baby squall for attention. And yet it is also true that one can write nothing readable unless one constantly struggles to efface one’s own personality. Good prose is like a windowpane.”
George Orwell, Why I Write

I write because my words are the windowpane of who I am.  I am a writer.

33 comments

  1. I like the article. People don’t seem to see writing except for the money which isn’t as good as telly and movies make them out to be. Love the Orwell quote because it is a selfish and horrible act writing, like peeling off your outer armour for any passer by to stab you into your soft under belly.

    never the less, I do hope you keep writing

  2. In my world, at least the way my outside world is now, I have very few friends who actually want to explore topics that I am passionate about … philosophical questions about life, death, sex (creativity), the meaning of it all. So since I do not have nearby friends to chat with about these things, I write. It is probably selfish, but then I don’t watch TV like others do. I don’t have heavy materialistic wants like others do. My joy is mind food. I would disagree that I am driven by demons to write … unless they are equally angelic. My writing is usually in some way about improving the quality of life … even if ultimately it may be only my own life improved.

    • I am afraid so. Non-writers don’t understand when I stand there side stepping back and forth waiting for their comments of approval or comments when I say something I feel is witty or worth praise. Now, writers get it.. we know that just one comment telling us how super awesome we are is enough to get us grinning all day long.

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  8. Thank you—inspires confidence. I often wonder why the heck I write if no one is reading, and recently that doubt almost derailed my current novel—because my “Ideal Reader,” as Stephen King says, has passed away. So I wondered why I bothered. And then I got back into the swing of things and just put fingers to keys and *wrote*…and here I am. That’s what it takes, isn’t it? It’s painful and it’s grueling and I never get a moment of peace from the doubt but sometimes the excitement of writing is just enough to bubble over and banish the rest for a moment…

    • I completely understand. My best friend and I were writing a novel together, we would talk about it for hours and hours and writing was easy. Then he died, an honestly he took the book with him. My writing turned from fiction to blogging to try to cope with his sudden death and my feelings around going on without him.

      A couple years later, I realized I stopped blogging for him, for my grief and started writing about the life I wanted after I was over being sad.

      Good luck my friend

      • My Ideal Reader was also my best friend, but in this case my grandma who’s lived literally next door to my bedroom since I was two. Stephen King writes that an “Ideal Reader” can be anyone, even a fictionalized version of someone you know, but for me, it was literally my grandma—everything I wrote, I wrote for her to read. And for the longest time writing didn’t make sense anymore without her around. Actually life itself didn’t make sense, since I don’t remember a time when she wasn’t around. But writing…well, I’m just glad I got back into my novel, so she didn’t take that away from me.

        • I had a very close and beautiful relationship with my Great Grandmother.. my Gram. She raised me from the day I was born. She was always my best friend and the one I could trust when other humans failed me I understand that loss. They carve a place in our souls that will never die.

          • Same…my parents worked full time, so Grandma was like a mom to me. She was the only person in the world that I willingly gave the power to hurt me and had the faith—not just the trust—that she would never use it. She was amazing. But life goes on…and so does my novel, thankfully.

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