The Quill

Is anybody there?

I’ve been thinking a lot lately, perhaps a little too much; to the point of almost kidding myself into thinking the words that I write are actually acknowledged and soaked up by someone from somewhere in the world.

Feeling disheartened each time I refresh a page only to see a single view per month is a horrible thing. After so many long, lonely coffee nights and endless psychological tortures I put myself through, it all amounts to very little in the end.

It’s a mundane feeling of being underappreciated and shallow, as if it were all for nothing and nobody really cared too much after all.

What’s two years’ worth of torture for a number of readers I can count on one hand?

That’s what bothers me most days, and I hate it.

It’s not the fact I don’t make any money from writing, because I wouldn’t want it even if it were a possibility. What I want is for someone to take a moment just to browse through something I write without the sympathetic and guilty conscience on their shoulder whispering through their ears.

I just want someone to look me in the eye and tell me something, anything.

I want something to remind you of me, and eventually, when I’m long gone, you’ll have known me for something I may have written once upon a time.

A book, a character, an extract from a poem; something that’ll stick by your side and make you wonder what I was thinking at that exact moment.

We write because we have stories to tell and want to express them in whatever way we can.

If you are like me, then through the medium of tone isn’t a preferred method. But writing them down on paper is an escape and the words flow more fluently. That’s why I write and do not stand on stage at a slam poetry night.

I am not a vocal person, not by a long shot. In fact, I hate talking. Because I truly am socially awkward and most things I say never make any sense.

I fear the anxiety slumped over me will cause me to believe everyone thinks I’m nothing but an intellectual freak, and I don’t want that.

So rather than choosing to speak, I choose to write; and although I write, nobody reads.

I know we write for our own pleasures and all, and believe me I do. In fact, I love it. It gives me an enormous sense of achievement and makes me feel like I’ve been a part of something huge.

Experiencing those final few minutes of reaching the end of your first draft is incredible, like you’ve truly conquered the world and scaled the highest mountain.

There’s no greater feeling than framing a piece of art on your bedroom wall and being able to admire it from any distance knowing full well it was you that made it happen.

A novel cover, an extract of an article—anything. You made it happen, and it’s you who will leave that piece of work behind for generations to uncover.

It’s a piece of your legacy that you leave behind, when all possessions are forgotten and memories dissolve, it’s those little things that matter the most and live on for all eternity.

It’s a little piece of you, forever and always.

But then, as J.K. Rowling once said, "No story lives unless someone wants to listen."

I guess that’s all I want; something to share with someone who is willing to give it a chance.

When all’s said and done, is that really too much to ask?
Someone to listen?

- J Tury

5th July 2018