One of the tasks of a writer is: to give forms to the formless, perhaps even primal, instincts, urges, train of thought, notion, that lurk behind the curtain of the unconscious, at the back of one's mind. Good writers make you go: "Wow, my thoughts exactly." Deep inside, the reader already knows and the writer simply crystallises the knowledge into cluster of words. It sounds Jungian, but I do believe the collective unconscious exists, in one form or another.
Unfortunately, this talent to crystallise comes at a cost. Almost all writers are afflicted with some sort of mental problem; think of poets and their associated tragedies. This is not suprising: literature verily reflects humanity, and the curator of the knowledge of humanity, the writer, stands in the midst of it all, the vortex of which may corrode the soul. I said 'may', because there is another possibility which is the very opposite: it may temper the soul. Wilfred Owen drank from his bitter cup -- his experience of war -- that's the source of his art. There were other writers who got drunk from their own tragedies and took their own lives. But there are also those who swallowed the poison and rose up stronger. To the writer, the act of writing may be itself therapeutic, redemptive even. Their darkness precipitated from the hearts to the pages. The grief percolating between the lines.
But they are they; and it remains to be seen what will become of the rest of us, each a writer of our own lives. Will we join the ranks of the tragic or otherwise? Yes, each of us should consider himself a wordsmith; it's not the matter of being a professional or a dilletante, but simply being one is part of being human. Your words will outlast you, outlive you, and I do mean 'outlive' you in terms of vivacity:
I asked the servant Leo why it was that artists sometimes appeared to be only half-alive, while their creations seemed so irrefutably alive. Leo looked at me, surprised at my question. Then he released the poodle he was holding in his arms and said: "It is just the same with mothers. When they have borne their children and given them their milk and beauty and strength, they themselves become invisible, and no one asks about them anymore."
-- Hermann Hesse, The Journey to The East
So, back to writing, shall we?
