Why write?
Several people have asked me why I'm doing this. And then recently I came across a little online media empire that I'll be sharing with you later, and someone had actually posted the question, "why do you write?"
I'd thought I'd share my answer here, because maybe it'll answer those who've asked me directly what would make me want to do such a silly thing as post my thoughts up on this interwebular thing...
so here it is:
I would think this question applies to every art form - why paint? why sculpt? why cover yourself in baby oil and swing 117 hoola hoops from all over your body wearing only a g-string?
ok, maybe the cabaret act would have a different answer (and maybe not, actually), but at the core of it, I think it's a simple belief that we have something to say.
Some of us just like to tell funny stories. Some to educate the world, or share experiences, some to shock, frighten and anger, some to feel the company of others' sympathies. Some to simply make others notice we've done so, and to feel anything at all.
At some point, I think art is a way of reaching out, of hoping someone, somewhere understands us. At its most passionate, it's standing in front of an audience and ripping your ribcage open, showing everyone you can find the gore and guts inside, screaming, "Here! Look at this! THIS is what I think!" But even when the passion is an ember, or a calmer desire, it's about reaching. Reaching someone, anyone.
The cosmic joke, of course, is on us. Because the moment people are actually listening, you're sure to feel like an ass for wanting their attention, or you'll be hurt by their misconceptions, or you'll want to run and hide quietly under your bed until they'll all just go away.
And that's when you realize it.
I do it for me. I do it because I just want to, I need to, because it stops the voices in my head, if only for a few minutes. Or because I am unable not to. And I do need others to notice it, and I do need others to feel something, and once in awhile, I'd like to know about that. But if they weren't there, if I was the last man standing anywhere on this rock, I'd still do it.
I'd do it because I want it to exist.
And I want to look at it, or read it, or listen to it. Because I want to feel something, too.
I'd thought I'd share my answer here, because maybe it'll answer those who've asked me directly what would make me want to do such a silly thing as post my thoughts up on this interwebular thing...
so here it is:
I would think this question applies to every art form - why paint? why sculpt? why cover yourself in baby oil and swing 117 hoola hoops from all over your body wearing only a g-string?
ok, maybe the cabaret act would have a different answer (and maybe not, actually), but at the core of it, I think it's a simple belief that we have something to say.
Some of us just like to tell funny stories. Some to educate the world, or share experiences, some to shock, frighten and anger, some to feel the company of others' sympathies. Some to simply make others notice we've done so, and to feel anything at all.
At some point, I think art is a way of reaching out, of hoping someone, somewhere understands us. At its most passionate, it's standing in front of an audience and ripping your ribcage open, showing everyone you can find the gore and guts inside, screaming, "Here! Look at this! THIS is what I think!" But even when the passion is an ember, or a calmer desire, it's about reaching. Reaching someone, anyone.
The cosmic joke, of course, is on us. Because the moment people are actually listening, you're sure to feel like an ass for wanting their attention, or you'll be hurt by their misconceptions, or you'll want to run and hide quietly under your bed until they'll all just go away.
And that's when you realize it.
I do it for me. I do it because I just want to, I need to, because it stops the voices in my head, if only for a few minutes. Or because I am unable not to. And I do need others to notice it, and I do need others to feel something, and once in awhile, I'd like to know about that. But if they weren't there, if I was the last man standing anywhere on this rock, I'd still do it.
I'd do it because I want it to exist.
And I want to look at it, or read it, or listen to it. Because I want to feel something, too.
posted by sb at 12:04 PM
3 Comments:
Dude, awesome. My own rather fresh but similar feelings explained better and more maturely than I could hope to right now.
Brett
It is a pity, that now I can not express - it is very occupied. But I will be released - I will necessarily write that I think.
I have no earthly idea what that means. But congratulations on your release, all the same.
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