Every now and then, I start fretting and re-evaluating my blog, my writing, and whether any of this means anything. I’ll get fascinated by those articles about platform building, and thinky, marketing advice about getting more hits, comments, and fans. I worry that I don’t do enough, that I don’t work hard enough or blog consistently enough or say anything interesting or useful enough. Then I say “screw it” and surf the Internet.
But really? When this happens, I’ve let being a writer trump writing. I let a title eclipse the purpose, the art.
In the end, none of us write for blog post hits, best sellers, or ad revenue. We don’t write to go viral or build a so-called tribe. In the end, even the ones who succeed write because they must.
And that’s the thing. I write because I must, because if only a few read it, that’s better than keeping everything in my head. Because in some corner of my soul, I believe this is what I’m made for.
If I hope to be a “real” writer, sure I’ll need a platform and such. But a writer, a real one, is one who writes.
It’s easy to get caught in the gears of the machine, but writing trumps being a writer. Every time.