The reality of my existence is, this morning, sitting in bed looking out of the window, feeling a cool breeze, hearing the drone of early traffic and gradually becoming aware of my body and conscious thoughts. I’m thinking about writing and what a strange thing it is to do. There’s a perfectly good world out there accessible to my senses, lots to do and see and feel, and yet I keep getting this urge to mirror it, reproduce it, transform it in words. I’m not complaining because the act of writing is usually very pleasant and satisfying. I generally like what I write and also enjoy reading my own words!  That could be enough, couldn’t it? But no, for some reason, I want to publish what I’ve written so that ‘other people’ can read my thoughts and creations. Why?

Well, there could be reasons, I suppose, like showing off, having something important to say, a social urge to share and talk with fellow humans, seeking status or a foolish desire for immortality. Take your pick. The reality is that of the millions of potential readers alive now, few, possibly none, will read my work and, in any case, posterity won’t care less who I was or what I thought. If anyone does read my work it will be of only passing interest and probably not change their lives – and why should it?

I’m not feeling sorry for myself, honestly! The pleasure of writing and reading my own stuff is enough to make the enterprise worthwhile for me. It’s an even greater pleasure to see my writing nicely set out in a book or pamphlet. It’s like when you cook a nice meal and see it on the plate ready to eat and you think, ‘I made that!’ And if someone else has a plateful and enjoys it, that’s really nice too. It feels good to share.