To be honest, I write mainly for me. It’s a selfish interest – or at least it begins that way.
Writing helps me analyze everything: me, things, people, spaces, events, thoughts, perceptions. I guess it is one way that I have found to maintain my sanity when nothing seems to make sense.
Sometimes the writing comes at the beginning of the analysis. Most times, it comes toward the end as I strive to put the pieces together – pieces that I have been spinning and re-positioning in my head for God knows how long – and prepare to move on.
And everything gets analyzed in my world. If it is personally compelling enough for any reason, it gets written, and usually published to this blog.
Once a piece is written, and published, it becomes public domain and holds the power to influence a reader in whatever way the reader needs to perceive it.
Its message is perceived and used in ways only the reader can fathom. To a reader, my reason for writing becomes personal to him or her. It is no longer about me.
To a reader, I write for different reasons. And, in reality, these other reasons are a secondary benefit to me as well. If my writing has the power to achieve these goals for other people, in their time of need, then it was time and effort well spent.
To a reader, I might write……
To reveal hope
To change perspective
To deliver a message
I met up with a few friends for drinks, and during the course of conversation I revealed that I am not a caregiver personality. I mean anyone that knows me knows that I have a good heart (at least, I hope they do); but I don’t ordinarily go out of my way to help others unless I am asked or unless I am keenly aware that they need and will accept my help.
That said, I hope that my writing “helps” others to work through their own issues in their own time, in their own way.
In a prismatic manner, maybe I am a caregiver after all.
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