Trying to Be a Magician vs. Doing the Magic

On the noble and ignoble intentions for publishing one’s writing, and the world of difference between the two

After writing and publishing online for the better part of a decade, I haven’t done so for about a year. And I feel okay about that. I never promised anything with my writing. There was never any obligation.

But for the longest time, I felt that I had to write and publish regularly. Over the course of the last year, I’ve realized just how destructive and selfish that feeling was.

So what changed?

I used to think about writing all the time. And I believed that doing so was noble. I believed that I was dedicating myself to a craft — a noble craft. After all, writing is one of those things that distinguishes us from the other life forms. We communicate in this unique and lasting way that even the most advanced species can’t. We’re able to convey our message not just directly to interlocutors in the present. We’re able to punch a deep impression into physical reality that outlasts each of us — without losing its power. In fact, the passing of time has often increased how powerful those impressions are. Words written hundreds — even thousands — of years ago still affect the people who read them today in ways that the authors could never have imagined.

That’s the magic of writing — which is really just the magic of the human mind. It’s the magic of creation transferred to a simple, tangible form — which another mind can pick up and tap into — without any loss of energy over time.

This magic happens on all scales. I write something 10 years ago that I pick up today. Reading it awakens all sorts of dormant memories. My imagination gets stirred and runs amok. I’m moved to take action. Or I’m quieted and comforted into reflective stillness. Perhaps, paradoxically, both. I’m moved to tears when at the time of the writing, I couldn’t (or wouldn’t) feel that emotion nearly that truly or deeply.

Writing is at once clarifying and obfuscating. We write with the best of intentions and the worst. We write as a weapon to wield against others, or as a form of medicine to comfort and heal. We write for these reasons and many more we often don’t understand at the time.

What I failed to think about for all the years I wrote for all the wrong reasons. And I hope that in some small corner of my mind I realized that, and I let myself slow to a stop.

My writing over the past year has been journaling. It’s been journaling with the sole goal of honestly revealing me to myself — so I can work on what needs to be worked on. It’s been an adjunct to therapy and an investment in the relationships that are important to me — which have unfortunately been the ones I’ve severely underinvested in.

How this has manifested is that I’ve stopped trying to edit in the moment. I suspect the reason I used to edit in the moment was because I wasn’t writing with pure intentions. I was writing to perform above all else. And when you’re primarily trying to perform, writing tends to lose its magic. And even if the reader can’t explicitly tell that that’s what’s going on, they most certainly get a sense of it. They feel it. Because writing never fails to harness feelings and thus stir up action. And yes, boredom is a feeling, and choosing to stop reading is an action.

What I’ve begun to remind myself of is this: stop trying to be a magician and just do the magic. Stop trying to write as a performance, and write in order to express and affect. What’s important is not what others think of me as a writer, but what others feel when they read my writing. The fact that I wrote it matters little. All that matters is the words and what they do to the reader.

So here’s me, backing out of the writing — though ironically using the word me much more than I used to. But that’s what’s funny about writing for the right reasons. I’m sharing with the intention of being honest and helpful, not with the intention of being recognized and revered.

Man, I’ve missed writing. It really is magical — when it’s done for the right reasons.