There are times I question my writing, and a repeated theme along the lines of, “why am I bothering?” often surfaces. Yet I keep writing. When I start an article, story or poem, I feel it’s then that it is mostly for myself, as a vehicle of expression and exploration. When I lose my steam part way through, I continue for my inner critic – to prove my mettle. When I post or publish something, I’m also doing this for myself in a way. Honestly, a part of me hopes that my work will impact a reader and inspire or inform or intrigue them – yet that hope too is for me; a desire of my ego, isn’t it? So possibly, there is nothing altruistic in my writing… perhaps it is, from concept to page, a selfish act. That doesn’t sit well with my heart though; I want my writing to go beyond me. And once my word stew is served up, Barthe’s post-modern concept that the author is ‘dead’ and the piece has meaning only insofar as the READER instils meaning, seems accurate as well.
All that ^ before a coffee! Thanks for stirring me to think.