Writers are attention whores. Like artists, actors, entertainers, and anyone else who feels the need to produce entertainment; we thrive on the praise given to our work and die by its criticisms. It’s hard to separate ourselves from something that holds so much of our soul.
A writer can never hold on to their emotions. They spill into the words we write because it’s the only place we’ve given ourselves permission to be honest. If we stymie the wellspring of truth our craft suffers. We lose focus, motivation, and drive. But it’s not enough to write the words or paint the picture: people should see it.
Honesty on the page can cause rifts in our personal relationships; we’re honest less often. It might lead to confrontation and wouldn’t that be the worst thing in the world?
In our imagined worlds we get to invent both sides of the conflict. Reality doesn’t give us the luxury of choosing the “right” side of the story, nor does it let us write our way out of mistakes. It doesn’t foreshadow when someone is a roadblock on your journey and it doesn’t let you chapter break into a better physical and mental state.
We write out of a compulsion to fix what the world won’t let us. We want people to see how it has been made better. We need them to acknowledge this thing that we have built. Our attempt at immortality.