I spent a few hours late this afternoon writing a piece for this space. Unfortunately, something happened and it disappeared. I was frustrated, irritated and downright exasperated. My first thought was that it had been a complete waste of time, hours spent for no reason whatsoever. Well, I was wrong. Chances are good that it wasn't particularly worth reading, but that's not the point. I wrote it because I wanted to write, not because I wanted to be read. There's a difference, you know.
if you love to write, it's one of the very best ways to spend time with yourself. When I was a young girl, I wrote poetry. I filled notebooks with nonsensical rhymes and emotional upheavals that had nowhere else to go. As I grew and life got more complicated, writing became more of a mixture of business correspondence and emails. Then the world of website posting happened to me. It really did happen to me. So I started writing again ... not poetry, but it was kind of like filling pages of a new notebook.
It felt good - especially when people seemed to like what I wrote. Strangers commented, and after awhile I found myself looking forward to it more and more. Funny thing, though. Being read became the reason I wrote. Don't get me wrong, some of what I posted was good - worth sharing no matter the reason. And having it validated was pretty heady stuff. Everyone likes it when someone else reads what they've written. Makes doing it worthwhile, right?
What I was reminded of today doesn't discount any of that. In a way, it emphasizes it. I simply remembered that the joy of creating something, anything, comes from the act itself. What happens after that is gravy. I love to write ... even if I'm the only one who knows I did.