I read somewhere recently that "The world often punishes those who arrive too early with truths it isn’t ready to accept." I don't know who wrote it, but it is profound.
I do not profess to be that premature teller of the truth. I simply have been writing long enough to have realised a few truths, not just about myself and writing, but about the world.
Dedication does not necessarily bring recognition. Motivation does not certainly bring success. Talent does not guarantee achievement. They are measures of persistence, endurance, intent, and ability. That’s all.
Success in any sphere in a society so morally bankrupt that it more often rewards the loud and the vapid, the shallow and the gratuitous, that is aligned with it, than with quality or truth, is a matter of perspective.
Why do I write? To chase others' idea of success? Certainly not.
Why then? Not to be soul-cleansed or uplifted. Not because it is fun. I write because it is the only time I recognise myself. Which is why I can be at peace with writing not for an audience, but for myself. Whether I am read or not, whether I ever sell a book or not.
When you have no audience, there is only the writing. It is not a means to an end. It is the end that the means justify. I tried to give up on it once. I couldn’t. To stop writing, once I had discovered it, would be to stop being.
If you have found your way here and read this far, you may be one of the few who understand that the value of the journey is in the way itself, not the destination alone.
This space, like my writing, is not meant for a big audience. It is not a marketing funnel to collect a mailing list to shower with reader magnets. It is meant for those who favour richness of texture, and meaning—that doesn’t care if it’s seen or not—over the cheap thrill of instant gratification.
Welcome to the quiet.
I read somewhere recently that "The world often punishes those who arrive too early with truths it isn’t ready to accept." I don't know who wrote it, but it is profound.
I do not profess to be that premature teller of the truth. I simply have been writing long enough to have realised a few truths, not just about myself and writing, but about the world.
Dedication does not necessarily bring recognition. Motivation does not certainly bring...
An abundance of exceptional writing remains unpublished and will remain undiscovered like treasures at the bottom of a vast, beautiful ocean.
Why?
For one thing, the ground has shifted fundamentally since the breakout era of the great commercial storytellers—the Ludlums, the Kings, the Grishams. Major publishing houses are no longer the patient patrons of craft; agents are no longer talent scouts and mentors. They act more like risk-averse investment firms and risk-mitigating portfolio...
It happens. If we live long enough, we grow old. If we grow old enough, we overstay our welcome. Or, we outlive our usefulness. Or we simply have to make room for the new, and the young. Often, the better. Then, we retire.
Retire to what? Travelling the world? Redecorating the country estate? Few have the means. So, write a book it is, more often than not.
It seems to me that there is some subtly spoken, or unspoken, rather romantic illusion about those who take up the pen late in life. They...
There is a quiet assumption that if a writer is not publishing, they are not writing. That an empty page must reflect an empty mind—or worse, a lack of discipline.
I live between two worlds: one where my recommendations are followed and my advice is considered and another in the unruly company of my characters. One demands predictability—a deliverable, a forecast, a measurable outcome. The other asks only that I remain still long enough to listen.
It is a strange thing to spend the day...
For those who wish to hear from the quiet, occasionally.
