My dad once told me that for him, the problem with making art was that the artist must strive to create a piece that captures the entire world and gives it back in a meaningful way. This is both impossible and the greatest aim.
I don’t write because I know it will be largely unread, pedestrian, and straddling the line between self-deprecation and narcissism.
But maybe we should all try to capture the language that makes sense to us and our situation in time and place. Camus implores us to rail against torpidity. Rorty reminds us the language will change anyway. Vygotsky assures us that a multitude is a good thing. And maybe it gives something back.
I don’t write because I am so humbled by and in awe of the people I admire.
But, the ethos that has been a constant thread in my life is that everyone has an important voice if their message is told with sincerity, passion, and clarity. The cacophony of real human voices, of individuals revealing themselves in a morass of media that is otherwise dominated by the dominant, might just paint an authentic picture of humanity, and, one hopes, add meaning to all of them and to each of them.
So while I do not write, I do think everyone should.