Whether we write a novel, read an article or publishe a few sentences it can seem like a game of Russian Roulette. Each of the chambers threatens to shoot down the motive and shun the wordsmith further.
We reserve the next spin of the gun for the feedback. From family, friends and acquaintances whose good intentions are tainted by motive and prejudice.
Editing marks the halfway point of the anguish. Where process and form threaten the essence of the project. When hard language replaces whimsical thought and fantasy.
It is not the rejection or criticism that hurts the writer when we seek a publisher. It is the pain and torture of being ignored that is intolerable
Start again or walk away?
It leaves the final chamber of the revolver clear. So the writer can start again or walk away from their beloved art form.
There is slim personal gain. Be it monitory, influence, or power. To write is to scratch an incessant itch. A need to share or to make a point. Few claims, let alone try, to represent or speak on behalf of anybody or anything. That is left tor the portals of social media where narcissistic tendencies flourish and perceptions take precedence over the truth.
Therein lays the existence of the writer – humanity’s collective conscience.
There is no programme or App capable of creativity or intuition. Forget The latest fad on artificial intelligence. It’s a misnomer to convince the insecure they are missing out. Formal education has attempted to play the same card. Intellect is neither of these. It is about life experience and the courage to back yourself.