Writing by its very nature is a solitary act. Most writers receive no accolades. There is little recognition. If a few lines that someone penned down see the light of day, the person is considered a major writer. Most of the lines we write lay buried deep in between the rotten pages of some old journal.
Then why is it that we choose to write? Often times, the choice lies on the outer reaches of the spectrum. Should one step out and spend time with people or should one instead spend that time writing in solitude? Somewhere deep within lies hope that one may be able to reach out to the muse of writing if one stares at the blank page long enough.
Do we choose writing or does writing choose us? Does a solitary existence come first or does a writing life lead to it? Is detaching oneself from living a life to write about it even a worthy act? We write about people who do not exist and things that never happened. Everything is a fantasy. Even our tragedies are the most ideal tragedies. Our thoughts are fictitious. Our lines are a lie. What are we in for?