Monday, July 18, 2011

"I confess it made me uneasy — makes me uneasy still — to think that this little book was out of my possession even for two days. The thought of another person reading my words is most discomforting. I cannot help but think how another person would interpret certain things I have written, for when I write for myself only, and know perfectly well the truth of what I write, I am perhaps less careful of my expression, and writing at speed, may sometimes express myself in a way that could be misinterpreted by another who would not have my insight into what I really mean."

Setterfield, Diane (2006). The Thirteenth Tale (Kindle Locations 4935-4940). Atria Books. Kindle Edition.
This passage of this book resonates so vibrantly in my spirit. I write for myself. It is an entirely selfish voyage, at least the destination. The journey, however, may or may not be entirely selfish. I suppose I have just as much insight than the average Joe (my narcissism kicks in here and I KNOW I have more insight than the average person.) Maybe that is true, maybe it isnt. But I do know my intent of what I write. Many times that has been miscontrued, bastardized, thoughtlessly catagorized into disappropriate containers in another persons mind. I am apathetic to the entire thing now, others perceptions of my writing. I have gotten more positive than negative and I have even inspired a person or two (or so they have told me). To say I dont care would be a lie. I do care when my words are twisted and completely misunderstood. But I have to say that says more about the reader than the writer.

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