You can’t be writing for other people.
It’s funny – I wrote this down last night – an easy blog-post, I thought.
And now, the next day, it doesn’t seem easy at all, and I feel as though I ought to add all sorts of caveats.
Some people write for other people – I know they do – they produce and produce towards a market that is waiting there for them – a market that is created with an eye on forces out there.
And this is the way to be successful, they say.
Success means making money at it.
Nothing wrong with making money – even making a lot of money if you enjoy the plain crafting of writing, for instance – the sort of thing you are taught in writing classes and university courses (done a lot of that, been there) . . .
(didn’t make a lot of money) . . .
The word ‘soul’ is creeping into my thoughts here – and I didn’t want to use it because I am not conventionally religious, and probably not unconventionally religious – and there probably is something – in Plato, maybe – about a soul and the idea of it not being attached to one version or another of Christianity, for instance (which is the religion that I am most familiar with) – but ‘soul’ seems the word I need to use here in an effort to convey how I feel.
I’m not even talking, necessarily, about the ‘inner core’ – who knows if there is one or not? (That’s a topic for another day.)
But I feel as though there is a place in me – and not just a trick of my brain – where I reside.
You can define ‘I’ in any way you want to, but I mean – somewhere within, where I am happy with myself, where my deep-down conscience isn’t bothering me. I have company down there, probably. But it’s where things seem right with me.
It surprises me that I speak of reality and truth – and now ‘soul’.
But I have been misrepresented, and I have not been in a position to rectify that.
I try to write that. In my writing I reside.