The way of writing

Writing is a way of life with me. Either poetry, my journal, the blog, sometimes my novels although less than usual, often research into the book on my Greek great-grandfather which plods and sometimes pontificating on forums although I am working at weaning myself off the latter. It is in the main such a pointless exercise. No-one changes their mind although I do admit you can learn a lot if you take the time. Which is what it comes down to, time.

I am not sure what it all means, if it means anything, which it probably doesn't. Editing manuscripts is satisfying, more so than editing my own, which, one day I plan to self-publish and which I largely don't bother submitting anymore. I think I have passed the ego stage of writing although maybe I am kidding myself. I did submit a novel recently and still felt a pang when it was knocked back. But only a pang.

It won't stop me from writing but I think it does stop me from submitting. Who really cares after all what someone else thinks about it? Perhaps, like much creative expression, it is enough to create and to express. I think I am kidding myself though. That's like cooking a meal you eat alone... then again... nothing wrong with that.

All of these words, all of this work, although it isn't really work... I do enjoy the wordsmithing... which can disappear in an instant if the internet no longer existed; all laptops in the world exploded; the house burned down or the planet disappeared... at least in any material sense.

But if energy cannot be destroyed, only transformed and words are energy which they clearly are, then somewhere, somehow, every word ever written will continue to exist, whether someone reads it or not. That's a nice thought. Probably ego-driven but a nice thought all the same.