June 8, 2009
To begin writing is in part a selfish, pompous, and dangerous task. It is selfish insofar as the author seeks to be understood. He presents himself through presenting the contents of his consciousness.
To write is pompous insofar as the act of writing presumes that the author has something worthy of saying. To be read is to steal away the time of the reader. As the reader's time is limited, it is a great thing to steal away. (That a man is more infuriated by the theft of money than of his time is all together unreasonable, or more accurately, unwise.)
It is a dangerous thing to develop a talent because you may misuse it. Writing well is a distinctly dangerous talent because of its proximity to truth. Language consists of the boxes by which we cart off the contents of Being's warehouse. One who builds a great edifice out of boxes as is done by the act of writing puts himself and his community at great risk. Nothing damages the truth more than untruth being couched in pretty or lofty words. Although the box is empty, it is still enough to knock a passer-by off course when the writing-edifice fails testing.
I write, but only in my dungeon. My setting mitigates the third risk of writing, but does nothing to lessen the first two.
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