As a writer, I feel a little detached from the world. I guess to a degree that there is some necessary in that, or at least some normality. I think that it is pretty important to be able to dive into my own mind and pull out ideas and stories to work on. I have to have some trust in my imagination and I wonder if I was so engaged in the outside world would I be a writer? I don’t know?
I know that some people use the experiences garnered in the outside world as inspiration for their pieces? Writing about life experiences which have happened to you is the kind of hands-on expertise knowledge to help form deeper connections with characters. I’ve been there, largely through experiencing depression and using what I faced in the outside world around me. However, I then internalised it all to go through what was arguably my most prolific period of writing.
So even with all that external acknowledgement I found it all coming back, as I said, internally. All of this got me to thinking about my purpose in the world recently. Yes, I’m a writer and stereotypically anti-social, I like my own space and don’t exactly feel as if I have anything to contribute to the survival of the human race.
Here’s what I was pondering. If we are indeed all humans (which I at least assume we are, I wonder if I was dropped here from another planet sometimes) then we should all relatively be the same. We shouldn’t arrive on this earth with so many differences to pull us all in directions to an individual means, should we. If the goal is enhancing the collective to ensure the survival of the human race, which is the most basic purpose and instinct there is, then why aren’t we all built to do that? What basically, would be the purpose of me being born to be antisocial and withdrawn and not participate in most of what is happening externally?
For some reason, I turned my question of purpose to bats. It’s not as if you would see a bat decide that he didn’t want to sleep on the ceiling anymore and go and cozy up to a rock on the floor for some shut-eye. That bat would be an outcast and not part of the strength of the collective because I assume he would be putting himself in danger of being isolated and probably be a midnight snack for a snake. So as much as he didn’t want to be on the ceiling on the more, to be different, there comes a weakness in pulling away and being different.
I am that bat(man) on the outside of the group and my weakness because of it was being pulled further to the very darkest side of depression. Why was I made to not fit in? I’m completely in a much brighter place now, but I still wonder about purpose. A lot! Writing is one of the most important things in my life and, therefore, it has to serve a purpose, right? What could such a purpose be? I went on a little journey for the deeper purpose of my writing purpose and this is what I came up with (in no particular order).
- Expression of emotions – This is a big one for me, being so withdrawn, it has to come out in some form
- Discovery of self – I touch upon different aspects of myself with characters, if I make a character do something I can think, would I like to try that?
- Fulfilling a need to be creative – This may come under the expression of emotions too, but along with the aesthetics painted through words, it’s a nice egotistical feeling when you hit upon a “brilliant” idea.
- To be fully alive – I can be alive in so many more situations in my head than I can be in real life
- Inspiring others – The deeper I looked at purpose, yes, there is a desire to touch others through writing and who knows who may one day, be inspired to become a writer because of something that I wrote. That’s not an egotistical look at that, I actually feel peace and love when I think about that.
- To be remembered – This is probably the biggest. My dream through writing for as long as I can remember, the real purpose was not to be forgotten. I always pictured in my mind someone picking up one of my published books from a library shelf, long after I have passed on. Hey, maybe one day I’ll even get reincarnated and it will be me reading my own book! What is this, though? Is this a genuine purporse or a purpose simply created by a fear of this whole life meaning nothing?
Psychiatrist Victor Frankl in Man’s Search for Meaning stated “Life is never made unbearable by circumstances, but only by a lack of meaning and purpose.”
What is the purpose to your purpose? Feel free to discuss below.