I was reading a reflection on loneliness and writing. The author, Polina, stated:
The life of a writer is a paradox: It’s a selfish act done for the enjoyment of others. While it’s beautiful, it’s also remarkably lonely.
I am sitting in a cafe. There is a woman studiously reading a book. I noticed that she started to smile, in a way reminiscent of that internal laugh one can feel when reading a book. The laugh evoked by both contentment and amusement at the writing. The author of the book is never going to know that here, on this specific date, their work brought amusement to someone on a Monday morning. They continue to smile; the amusement has continued across multiple pages.
Polina's statement resonated with me. I write about the world, but there is often a degree of disconnection between myself and what is going on. I often write about what I observe, where I may not necessarily be a character in the story. The feeling of observing brings me joy. The challenge of crafting a story about what I am observing is a great privilege. In the back of my mind, in hindsight, I do wonder to myself "how does my writing make other people feel?"
A fellow blogger commented on my Moments of Joy series last week, remarking they had started to notice more little details in their day. Their statement enriched my day beyond measure, perhaps because I never expect any comment on my work. I write and hope that what I write may be of some meaning to one person out in the world. My writing may take an observational role. With that said, documenting moments of joy and slices of life is a true pleasure.
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