As a writer, I create in a solitary environment. I go into a room for a half-hour, an hour, longer if I can and I MUST be alone. Sometimes I question whether or not I’m being selfish. After all, even if my writing is based on the world I see outside of me, I’m still examining my reaction to it. It’s all filtered through my head, my life, or my imagination. If it’s self-expression, isn’t it still all about me?

Eventually, I share my writing with other people, but why?

Because I’m trying to make a connection with other people – a soul connection.   The kind of connection I can’t seem to make in any other way. Sure I can talk to people, “share” on Facebook or Twitter or Instagram, or invite them over for dinner, but the connection we make through art seems more visceral and more spiritual to me.

When I write a poem or a story, some things emerge during the process that I may not be aware of on a conscious level. I like to think spiritual forces – call it “The Muse” call it “Spirit” call it “God”, that present themselves within the creation. These spiritual forces speak through the creation to whoever is reading / viewing / listening to it.

Is art born of God? I’d like to think the creative urge is God-given and that our end “products” really come from God. Of course we have to put in the work. We toil away with pen and paper or a computer, we practice our instruments, we lay down the paint. We do our best to perfect the technique. Whatever we do produce emanates from our own unique perspectives and personalities, not to mention our abilities.

But why bother with it anyway? Making art is hard work. It’s not just about the technique and the inspiration. It’s also about overcoming fear, doubt and limitation. Ultimately, it’s a drive that a lot of us have difficulty explaining. Writing is something I HAVE to do. Nobody is making me do it.

I believe this inner drive to write is a part of who I am. I’m not sure where it came from. Sometimes, though, when I turn down an opportunity to become a part of a charitable organization, or volunteer for a good cause, or avoid a lot of social gatherings, I start to wonder – am I being selfish? On my good days, I chalk it up to the necessary sacrifices that artists make. Besides, if I didn’t also have day job, I would have more time for those other things.

The truth is, when I dedicate myself to write something every day, I feel like I’m fulfilling my purpose.  When I ignore it in exchange for superficial social engagement, I feel agitated and like I somehow failed.

I can only hope that the end product is the gift I can give to the world. The gift comes from my soul. It may not be the greatest poem ever written, or a story worthy of a prestigious award, but I put my whole heart into it. Is that selfish?