Invisible

I read Thomas Dohling’s post about the bitter joy of being a writer. And I could totally relate to what he wrote.

It’s that feeling of self-doubt. Questioning whether what you’re writing is being read or it’s simply brushed off. For me a write-up can be compared to an artwork that can be admired, understood, interpreted in different ways, or chucked in the irrelevant-uninteresting-bin.

“What’s the point of writing if you’re not being read?”

But I looked back to why I write. Self-expression, a tool to keep one’s sanity, second nature. I guess, being read is a bonus. If you were able to inform, encouraged someone, or made an impact on a reader, then that’s a plus – the cherry on top, if you please. The affirmation that you’re NOT aspiring to be a writer but IS a writer.

It is an age of free and open worldwide web where it’s so much easier to publish one’s works. This also has made it more challenging to stand out or to compete with others demanding for attention. We may grow desperate for likes and increasing blog traffic. In the end, you decide what matters to you as a writer. The public response or self-fulfillment of simply being able to write.