“In many ways, the work of a critic is easy. We risk very little, yet enjoy a position over those who offer up their work and their selves to our judgment. We thrive on negative criticism, which is fun to write and to read. But the bitter truth we critics must face, is that in the grand scheme of things, the average piece of junk is probably more meaningful than our criticism designating it so.” (Anton Ego, Ratatouille) 

I’ve just been so busy editing, vetting, producing paid work, crafting school work; letting my writing all go to channels that DEMANDED it of me.

But what about my own writing? How long has it been since I was able to sit down and let my words wander, creep lazily across the page and swivel round like a paper mill in the breeze? So many scattered veins of thought that I didn’t follow nor write down.

As someone who writes for so many different and specific audiences, I would like to implore all curators of written content out there: Take time to write for yourself.

The web is a wonderful canvas but sometimes a harsh one. Niche topics, mainstream topics, viral content, thoughtful content. We are so bound by the grooves and calloused edges of the canvas that we share. We teeter around the boundaries like a mathematical figure caught between the enmeshed lines of a venn diagram.

I vet, I edit. I critique my students’ work. That’s easy. I produce essays (which are a pain) for my professors’ purview, so of course I write what I think they would most like to read. That sometimes involves strategic decisions. Don’t teach your grandma to suck eggs i.e. don’t write about a topic that’s their specialty, you can’t beat them at their own game. Yet, you’ve got to write something that piques their interest, but not necessarily yours. This is what happens when you create solely for the consumption of an audience.

…

I like to immerse myself in darkness when I write. Not just physically but metaphorically. I eke my craft in the stillness of the night, with the whisper of the wind in the rafters and the gaping oblivion of my mind beckoning me to go into myself. Introspection – perhaps that is the greatest trajectory of my writing. My work is in the study of society, and my writing is the study of the mind. Just like how nature offers its ecosystem and golden ratios, our human societies are a similar marvel of nature. Beyond physical environments and bio-diversities, we’ve created a parallel to the natural world in the form of our society, something equally fascinating and worthy of study.

But introspection – that takes it a step deeper. Sometimes I can’t pull myself out of it. I curl inwards into myself, the darkness of my mind consuming itself, feeding and breaking down, thirsting while regurgitating.

Maybe that’s where works such as these come from.

So, I sent this to a friend and asked for his opinion on it. I said it was cathartic to write it, and that it all just poured out. He simply said, “I thought your point was that it shouldn’t be for others, it should be for yourself.”

And I thought, well, I can live with that.