There’s an
interesting human phenomenon that one could associate with writing (or music,
filmmaking, painting, even sport), whereby there would be dissatisfaction in
each element of the whole, but in their combination, they create a sense of
integrated fulfilment that none of the constituents could deliver alone. If a
writer couldn’t write at all, they’d be dissatisfied; if they could write, but
no one would ever read their outputs, they’d be dissatisfied; and if they
couldn’t write, but they were magically given all the spoils of having books to
their name (and the money, fanhood, critical esteem that goes with being a
best-selling author), they’d still be dissatisfied.
Each constituent point is desired, but inextricably connected to the other two. In isolation, there is not full satisfaction in the writing, or in the having written, or in any recognition divorced from the reality of those things – it’s like we create or produce or explore to pursue an end destination, only to find that it’s the interplay of creation, acknowledgment, and an extended sense of artistic accomplishment that gives our pursuits the full suite of meaning and purpose.
