I had one or two very strange responses (not online) to my recent post, the one ending (for now) this blog’s cataleptic period. They made me think thoughts I’d never really thunk before. Or not in this direction (I’ll explain in a minute) about writing, about reading, about interpretation and understanding.
I write. I’ve had a small amount of success getting small things published, in fact I have to admit it’s been quite a good ratio of submission to publication. But, the last two years have been a pretty fallow period. Illness, recovery, then the writing of a book that may or may not ever make it into print have set my record back severely.
But when things were going well a particularly supportive press, Black Bough Poetry, chose to feature me as one of its ‘Silver Branch’ writers. This was and is an honour. I was honoured and grateful. Still am.
As part of the process, I had to write about myself. Always difficult. Especially for someone educated in old fashioned Catholic schools where modesty was a prime virtue.
I looked at previous featured writers and was puzzled to see several writing about what they wanted readers to take from their writing, what their message to readers was as they created something new from words, gave life to ideas.
I thought about that, wondered what I would say. And I realised that I don’t write for readers. I write for the writing. It is what it is. Well, if I’m writing fiction I may have in mind what readers would expect of the genre but otherwise, no, I write. If it’s regarded as good to read, good enough to be accepted for publication, then people can and will take what they want from it.
That was the direction I HAD thought about. I’m not writing something FOR the reader. If it must be written, it must be written.
Fast forward from 2022 to my blog revival. As a result of which one friend unfollowed me, having got the impression the whole thing was about her. It wasn’t. I hadn’t remotely thought of her when writing it. I didn’t understand, at all, why she reacted that way, but given it upset her I was at pains to reassure her. Agreed she must do whatever was necessary for her mental well-being. She is a very sensitive soul.
There were others who completely missed the points I was making. People who plainly didn’t recognise themselves, which both astounded and amused me. Yes, distance is a great healer. But I will say no more about them, there have been enough misunderstandings and I have learnt a lesson.
What I write is beyond my control. No matter how clearly I express myself, what I say and any word-picture I create can morph into something very different once the symbols on screen or page are translated into meaning in someone’s head.
You’d think I would already have known this – and I suppose I sort of did, but this came at me in a different direction. And now I know better.
I’ll just finish this short post by saying, again, that if anyone feels he or she was the subject of that post (you probably weren’t) and feels upset, I had hoped you would realise that, as I tried to explain, I understood. I was a pot calling a kettle. Guilty as charged myself.
But, ultimately, the words I wrote were there to say, hello everyone, this is where I have been, I’m back, it’s good to see you all.
All five of you.
[Please read those last four words again now, with a very big smile on your face.]
I may go back to writing about trees and the sea and birds and squirrels and sunshine and moonlight soon. Or I may give up again. Who knows?
Not I.
Take care. Look after yourselves. Keep on reading.
Whatever it means to you.
MEMOIRS OF A HUSK 
Well I an not reading type backwards at 5pm! Seriously you write ( or paint, illustrate ,express) for whatever you feel inside yourself or thought you want to make and hope the material resonates with others even though it can be interpreted in many different maybe personal ways. The most illuminating art I have ever seen were others ideas I could see within my own different spectrum.
Some ideas stayed with me years
Go for your own thoughts and stick with them. If they disturb others maybe it has been deep in their own memory.
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Hi Ann good to hear from you and thanks for this, I can see it might be even more true in the visual arts. And I definitely wouldn’t bother trying to read that type backwards! M
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Write on brave soul x
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Thanks, Ronnie, that’s a lovely thing to say x
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With self-interested bias… I love this form of expression and communion. I like reading what people write for themself about theirself. But I understand either may not be everyone’s cup of tea.
I also understand there’s a time to write and a time to simply live in order to have something to write about if so inclined. And times where life involves so much living there’s no bandwidth for writing… which is me currently.
Writers should, like cats, be unto themselves.
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I love that, Dale, I quite like the idea of being like a cat, it is how I shall think of myself when I’m in a quandary about something… And thank you for sparing time to comment, hope your busy-ness is productive or at least fulfilling.
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No offence taken here!
Don’t write for the reader. Who is the reader? You can and will never know. If you write what has meaning for you (being authentic?), you may strike a chord with someone else. You can please some of the people some of the time, never please everyone all the time.
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Ain’t that true?! I was seriously puzzled by other authors saying they wrote, they set out to write, for their readers – glad to hear it’s not just me. And you;re right -how can we even know who the reader is.
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Welcome back. I always write for myself and, as you say, for the writing. I’ve no idea what readers will take away from my stuff, but it’s rarely what I was intending, since perhaps I was never intent on anything other than exploring a thing. May you find the best way forward.
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Hello! I think I have, it was a passing puzzlement when I read those other authors’ ‘me’ statements. And I am glad to see you and other writers- and an artist – agreeing here.
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Hello my sweet, I am back reading you again after such a long and unforgiveable gap, so many missed moments. I don’t write as you do (though I do sometimes scribble down a poem as part of a kind of diary of my reactions to situations and people. Have done since I was seven). But if I did, and many people were going to see it, I still wouldn’t be able to write ‘for them’. I’d just reach out and see what happened. I think it’s fantastic that a painting or a play or a novel or a sculpture can draw hundreds of rich and different emotions from as many viewers/readers; I wouldn’t presume to try to draw a particular reaction. Write because of the instinct to write, to create. I’ll keep reading you!
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