Why we write

Writing is a weird thing. It’s this creation from our brains, composed of tiny figures that we’ve all mutually agreed are valuable. When I sit down to put words to the page I have an idea of what I want to write. But I’ve purposely chosen not to plan it out.

Instead I take that notion and trust my experience to get me to a point that’s satisfying. I don’t always know how I’ll get there, and often the endgoal changes halfway through the writing. When that happens I’m delighted.

If I knew the whole thing from the outset I’d have little interest in pursuing the task. The mystery of the unknown, not seeing where this thing will flesh out, that is the fun. I want to write for someone vaguely like me. And the version of me reading it is less interested if I know what the piece says ahead of time.

Now, as often happens in writing, because I get side-tracked halfway through, I’ll go back to the beginning of a piece and re-read from top to bottom. My goal is to see if I can still get to that original endpoint I’d imagined. If not, I just keep writing, but if so I’ll tweak things a bit and move the piece along to composite the disconnected ideas.

I’m not sure if there’s a muse. But a few times during longform writing, often once or twice per novel, I’ve felt something happen in the words that surprises me. The characters I was writing did something on their own. They came alive and made a decision that I didn’t anticipate or expect. They gained autonomy and ran with it.

The first time it happened I freaked out, feeling chills of excitement at the weird thing that just happened. Later I accepted and appreciated the moment for what it was, something disconnected from me, but also part of me. That’s why I keep writing, chasing the proverbial muse.

My writing doesn’t need to be perfect to be valuable. I improve over time, learning from the mistakes of previous words to improve on the next. In the past I’d agonize over every word, trying to perfect my pieces and get it just right. The result was a few posts every year, or less. Looking back on this blog I see gaps of years between writing.

I’d rather get something out there, messy and all, and learn over time. That’s not to say I’m interested in an absolute volume of work that’s barely better than the rubbish we’re seeing pumped out by AI. But it does mean I want to find my voice, have something to say, and scratch the itch of creating.

I’d rather have more out there, imperfect though it may be, then to silence my voice for years on end again.

When it comes to editing I’ve waffled between too much and too little. Now I settle on re-reading my work a few times for clarity and to find errors. I don’t change too much. Again not because I’m perfect, but because I don’t want to burden my future self in expecting to hand-craft every word into such a carefully constructed state as to remove all joy from the process.

I encourage others to do the same. I’d rather read more from you, a little messy though it maybe.