Writing of Lives

"I began the writing of my “Lives” for the sake of others, but I find that I am continuing the work and delighting in it now for my own sake also, using history as a mirror and endeavouring in a manner to fashion and adorn my life in conformity with the virtues therein depicted ··· And oh! What greater joy than this can you obtain, and more efficacious for moral improvement?" - Plutarch

I found this quote while doing some readings this morning. I thought it was a lovely encapsulation of the flow of a writer's soul, in addition to what is apparently the Greco-Roman custom of viewing the heroic as the exemplar and (consequently) a Christian call to view God a source rather than simply Christ alone as an inspiration in one's life and works. I have certainly oscillated between writing for myself or others, because certainly when I write for myself I feel most safe, because there is no need to presume that anyone would be interested in what I say... let alone that someone would somehow benefit. (This idea can put a lot of pressure on what I'm doing!) On the other hand, if it was just for me, then I would keep it all to myself. And yet, sometimes I do find that I feel the need to share something, and I'm not entirely sure why. Of course there is often an intertwining of the subconscious desire to be seen and understood, and the way the act of writing itself provides reflection almost by default. But the desire to share can be altruistic, too. There is always risk involved in sharing, especially if it is something deep or even dark. In those case I have found that my desire to be seen is less, and I risk rejection, embarrassment, or misunderstanding. I am no exhibitionist. In these cases, though, the call to share seems to come instead from a desire to hold up something that others might recognise in themselves, so that they might feel seen, instead. Or else there certainly are mirrors I could keep to myself. 

I'm not sure if this is just because I've been writing in private for such a long time… I wonder if it would be different if I had always had an audience. Even still, as I steel myself for rejection, or simply a lack of audience, by doing what I feel called to do, I do also find there is no satisfaction quite like knowing that someone took the time to read what you wrote. In a similar way that one could always speak to themselves, or voice their thoughts aloud, and sometimes that's all that is needed if one needed to vent, but then how much more satisfying is it when you realize that someone was listening, and perchance to dream that they may even respond thoughtfully? I think the key is just to make sure that, whatever the case, one is always being true to themselves and their meaning... The rest is never in our hands anyway.

This is true of... many things.