Writing is to rage against the machine, not the powers that be. It’s a practice that hollows out the anxieties within. The machine is us, and the blank page is the battlefield of emotion.
Writing is a meditative process, a chance to pause and self-distance from the everyday. Prose allows us to exhaustively test society’s rules and expectations while confronting the shame of our uncertainties.
Feeling the squeeze, stuttering into a handicap, we bleed words on paper and onto the screen to reinforce mental fortitude. We already beat the psychology of regret over the head by making the bad decision to scribble our feelings in public anyway.
Yet it remains the nature of the playwright to scribe behind the curtain in anonymity. The author bares all and rarely becomes famous.
Whether they’re deemed right, wrong, fanciful, or insane, we own our own words. However, the brain’s plasticity guarantees that our thoughts evolve; strong positions get weakly held. The pragmatist takes a razor to unnecessary complexity.
Writing is a serotonin pump, and the practice oozes confidence into our mental muscles. Words act like bicep curls for the brain. Struggling with words is a paradoxical pleasure. As the US Marines say, “Pain is weakness leaving the body.”
Writing, like a fork or spoon, is an instrument for living. It’s also a passport to freedom. Our only concern should be its inhibition, a gauge that comes from the synchronicities from within.
