It's just words
“The subjects that stir the heart are not so many, after all, and they do not change.”
― Mary Oliver, A Poetry Handbook
I’ve been writing online for nearly 14 years via various blogs and more recently Substack.
In that time (not that anyone is counting) I’ll have written a few million words, ranging across a multitude of topics.
(Actually, if I look back over my writing travails, I’m pretty sure that three issues have dominated the scene: 1) work; 2) spirituality (even though I rarely use that word in ordinary parlance); and 3) more latterly, death, dying and elderhood (HT to Stephen Jenkinson and his two books Die Wise and Come of Age.)
In the beginning, I may have thought that this was a way to garner attention, develop a business and personal brand (I now abhor any reference to such a thing) but those lighting rods of self-absorption long ago ran their course and I now do it because I’ve no choice.
But it runs a bit deeper than that.
Each day, without fail, a thought will hit me or at least one that hangs around in the languid recesses of my mind, and I know that, without doing anything more than sitting down at the computer and waiting on the muse, my fingers will, as they’re doing right now, find the right words.
All in all, I find that pretty mysterious/awesome and whilst I’m sure I’ve pissed off a few people or bored them senseless with my diatribe, that’s not enough (and I’m imagining this of course) to put me off the scent or dissuade me from the task at hand.
Am I (now) trying to achieve anything with my writing?
Erm, not really.
I enjoy the process too much to worry if (for instance) I’m growing my subscribers on Substack or generating interest on Twitter or LinkedIn.
Perhaps I should have a plan but then again, I don’t want to feel that there has to be an outturn to what I’m sharing and the pleasure of writing is more than enough to keep me in the game.
Perhaps it’s time to write a book.
Again, having tried and failed a myriad number of times, I’m not persuaded that I’ve got the ability, talent or fortitude to write more than a few hundred words at a time without necessarily thinking how I might join the dots of my sometimes eclectic and bad-tempered musings.
One other thing that’s worth saying. I love words. And that means digging around in the etymological weeds, as well as thinking of their ontological import. I realise that sometimes I use words that have fallen into disrepair or are not oft used but I like to challenge myself to see if I cannot describe the extant situation without relying on the usual bushel of words that I tend to read.
Will I keep writing as I edge closer to my 60s? I bloody hope so. There’s not much else creatively that I can see me doing.
I should add that I’m very grateful to everyone who continues to read my words and for all the comments and feedback. It does, as I’ve repeatedly said, mean the world to me.
Take care.
Julian