"I'm not an egomaniac," said a friend recently, "so I don't have a blog." It reminded me of that thing that so many writers say about writing out of loneliness—that it's a constant attempt to reach someone, to be understood.
Yet I've been talking to a lot of bloggers lately—some egomaniacs, some not—and many of them claim to hate writing. To me, that sentiment is like physics: nonsensical. Incomprehensible. Maybe blogging and writing can be two different things.
I write because writing gives me a scanty mirage of a chance to say what's meant, in a way that's understood as it's intended. To me, that's the most important thing there is.
But in real life, that's a dream, a fiction, a fake carrot on a phantom stick. I literally never say what's on my mind. Ever. If that's your starting point for communication, you'll always feel like you're screaming into the void.
Also, in the moments that really matter, I find words obsolete: a limited toolset with severely restricted applications.
In effect, I think writing, along with all other kinds of creativity, is a playground for those too scared to face the truth. Which is all of us, right?
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