Writing is such an obnoxious activity, but it reminds us that we’re still alive
Like making babies, writing helps us rage against death.
Too much writing makes my head hurt. I know I have the option to stop, but… I can’t. Lately, I’ve been thinking, “writing is such an obnoxious activity”. I mean, think about it, writing (especially writing with the aim to publish) is really about thrusting the contents of my mind onto others, onto you, hapless Medium reader!
Why do I assume that anything coming out of my noggin is worth you paying attention too? I’m sure you have enough going on in your own head to entertain yourself.
You know that person at the dinner party who won’t shut up? The one who blithely hogs the conversation because he or she is probably unable to or uninterested in listening to anyone except themselves? I call them “the talkers”. No one would say they aren’t a hoot, but man do they love the sound of their own voices! Well, writers are similar to talkers. Even the quiet ones who act all modest and have learnt how to sit back and play it cool. They do what they do — divulge their mind to anyone willing to attend to it — because they fear that if the stuff inside is not acknowledged by an audience, or at least just one other person, then they may cease to exist, might vanish off the face of the earth, poof!
