The Writers’ Game
Was this writing game something?
I’m a novice climber. Too heavy and too old, for that discipline, but I love it.
A pleasant secondary effect of climbing is the community around.
After a while, you start to meet more or less the same people, and maybe to have friends. Friends or not, they’re people you immediately connect with, given the common and practical interest.
One day, I went to the gym with my wife. She doesn’t like climbing very much, but that gym has high walls, I needed a trusted partner, and — yes — I’m not good at having regular friends in person.
When my wife was tired, because she’s better than me at climbing but four hours are enough for her patience, I remained with a few friends met there, bouldering, which is climbing a few feet off the ground, but in varied and athletic situations.
Bouldering may be especially tricky, and it may take a while to be able to solve a problem. You try in turn, with your friends inciting you, alert to your possible fall.
We were five or six of us, trying moves, one moment all serious, the other moment laughing. Jumping, smearing on the wall, falling.
That hour of that day was one of the best hours I can remember of my last year.
The day after, I couldn’t help to notice a similar feeling with Medium, this community of readers and writers, with a large sub-community of writers. Sometimes, I even wonder if we are all writers, reading each other.
We write, we read, we experiment, we comment, we take selfies of our posts for Facebook, sometimes we connect with particularly alike souls. For a while.
There’s energy in that.
And much more.
There are all kinds of needs and attitudes in it.
Who wants to stay away from daily concerns. Who wants a moment of glory. Who just wants to laugh. Who wants to be a pro. Who just wants to train and improve their writing skills. Who thinks to be too old for blogging but, hey, is there an age for that, really? Who is not good enough. But who’s good enough? The ones with more followers?
Seriously, we’ll be all gone by a couple of hundred years. And by a few thousand, they likely won’t even know what blogging is. Blogging will be like graffiti in the caverns are now for us, with their hieroglyphics. But there will be too many hieroglyphics. Nobody will translate.
So, does it really matter why you and I are here?
But I had my good moments with my writing pals. We were here, writing, blogging, experimenting, connecting, worrying, and smiling. In this special moment in the history of writing. In the history of the Web.
Virtual history. Temporary history.
Maybe useless history, who knows.
Let’s leave aside for a while the money, your ex, your toxic workplace or your inexistent job, the issue with your shoulder, your unbearable neighbor, the burnt dinner.
We had a great time, isn’t it?