The title of this post is a rip-off from an essay written by George Orwell, published in 1946. If you only have time to read one thing today, you should absolutely read that piece over mine.
I can’t fully relate to Orwell, who knew from a young age that he wanted to make a living as a writer. I’ve only recently started dabbling, and for pleasure instead of pay. But that pleasure is something twisted; a compulsion. Orwell described it like this:
I'm not writing a book, just some silly little blog posts. But I've been thinking about this demon lately, trying to wrap my head around it and understand where it came from. Here's what I've been able to glean so far.
Writing is medication
I tend to think a lot. Sometimes too much. All kinds of facts and opinions and tidbits and judgments and questions and thoughts and observations swirling around in the toilet bowl of my brain.
Writing is focused thinking. It channels my ruminations, giving them a concrete outlet. Pondering something for days or weeks doesn’t always lend itself to any kind of closure or conclusion, but drafting, organizing, writing, editing, and rewriting leads to a blissful offloading. It’s freeing.
I also get into a tunnel-vision flow state when I’m writing (or reading or coding, for that matter). I think over time I’ve slowly gravitated towards activities that entirely consume my focus, because they’re peaceful breaks from overthinking and anxiety.
Writing is limitless
I believe writing is the least limiting way of communicating. Think about how many constraints there are when trying to communicate ideas in other ways. In a face-to-face conversation, for example, you might choose the wrong word, get interrupted, unintentionally add filler words, regret saying something one way and wish you had phrased it differently, or lose your train of thought. Don’t get me wrong - all of those things are beautifully human, and I’m not trying to be a robot arguing that writing is always the best. I’m just drawn to the vivid, crystal clear transfer of thoughts that writing so readily enables.
Written words can be so powerful. The ability to choose them carefully and intentionally craft them to serve a purpose is hypnotizing. There’s so much control compared to other mediums. Is it any wonder that media almost always progresses from written script to visual adaptation? Writing has a hold on me because it has no limits (except, I suppose, the limits of the writer).
Writing is contributing
As simple as it sounds, contributing something to the world feels good. It feels important, even on a small scale. In today’s attention economy, we’re constantly inundated with things that other people have put into the world. A lot of it is slop. I’m fighting back by sharing pieces of myself. I believe in an internet where real people share real things with real intention and real care. Maybe part of me writes to prove that The Algorithm ™️ doesn’t control everything online.
As Orwell points out, there’s surely some percentage of egoism in my motivations. It’s fun when someone reads something I’ve written! I enjoy hearing readers’ reactions! It makes me feel good!
Regardless of the exact reasons, I’m learning that the demon is relentless. Truthfully, even if no one ever read this post, I would still write it. I have to write it. I can’t not write it. Nor can I fully explain why that is.
I don’t know for sure how long this compulsion will last. Maybe forever, maybe not. But for now, the demon wins.