When I finish writing something—a book, essay, poem, short story—it amazes me how once I’ve gotten the thing out, it’s gone.
It’s a strange feeling. The first book I wrote, which won’t ever see the light of day, is a story about a guy named Will. Will was with me for two years of torture as I painfully put his story into existence. I thought of him often, as if he was someone I knew well. Then one day, the book was finished. And Will was gone—forever.
This happens to me basically every time I write. Things I have created and put out leave no trace that they had ever existed in my mind. I was reminded of this feeling by you mentioning the piece I wrote about our Lake Placid trip. I couldn’t believe I wrote something like that, and still can’t. It can’t be replicated and it won’t be.
That’s the beauty of writing. We put things out there, little creations, that then go out and exist on their own.
Beautifully put, and I’m sure every writer on here can relate.
It’s remarkable how these things come out of us. It’s like giving birth—this creation came out of us, and needed us in order to exist, but the actual process of creation is a mystery.
When I finish writing something—a book, essay, poem, short story—it amazes me how once I’ve gotten the thing out, it’s gone.
It’s a strange feeling. The first book I wrote, which won’t ever see the light of day, is a story about a guy named Will. Will was with me for two years of torture as I painfully put his story into existence. I thought of him often, as if he was someone I knew well. Then one day, the book was finished. And Will was gone—forever.
This happens to me basically every time I write. Things I have created and put out leave no trace that they had ever existed in my mind. I was reminded of this feeling by you mentioning the piece I wrote about our Lake Placid trip. I couldn’t believe I wrote something like that, and still can’t. It can’t be replicated and it won’t be.
That’s the beauty of writing. We put things out there, little creations, that then go out and exist on their own.
Beautifully put, and I’m sure every writer on here can relate.
It’s remarkable how these things come out of us. It’s like giving birth—this creation came out of us, and needed us in order to exist, but the actual process of creation is a mystery.