Recently, there have been lots of warm fuzzy posts reassuring us that the reason we write is to prove that we are not alone, to share experiences, etc.
Well, that’s true, and it’s all good, and so on – but the inverse is that we write because in some manner, we feel that we are alone, that we are not understood, and that, perhaps, we are too strange to be accepted or even to be sane.
I think that art is a pre-pharmaceutical intervention for impending psychosis.
Many artists like to say that they write about what they love, but I believe that at least as often, we write about what we fear.
In naming it, in describing it, we try to demonstrate that we can leash our terror, leash our loneliness, and conquer it. Maybe even be able to sleep at night.
Yes, reading and audiences build communities – but they result from acts of solitude. In some regards, we are alone. We throw our art, or at least our work, out into the void, hoping it hits something and reverberates back towards us, proving that we are not alone.
Until then, the act of producing art is an act of faith.
This post was first published on irevuo.com, The Midnight Muse.