To write is to think about writing.
Who wrote that? It’s not a new thought, by any stretch of the imagination. People have been discussing about ‘the act of writing’ since ancient times, making the topic part of a rich tradition stretching back to the ancient Greek rhetoricians.
But what is it about the writing process that is so important—apart from its obvious use as a tool for record-keeping? Why have humans been talking about writing for so long?
Plato’s dialogue Phaedrus provides us with an early glimpse of how these conversations would have gone in ancient times. In the Phaedrus, Plato’s ever-present interlocutor Socrates recounts a fable where the ibis god Theuth brings writing to the king of Egypt:
“O King, here is something that, once learned, will make the Egyptians wise and will improve their memory; I have discovered a potion for memory and for wisdom.” —Socrates in Phaedrus, 274e
In this passage, Plato associates writing with memory in a very ambiguous way; it’s a characterization that’s inspired many interpretations over the centuries (for one of my favourites, read Jacques Derrida’s essay “Plato’s Pharmakon”). Plato’s characterization touches on the idea of history (as collective/ collected memory) and, for most educated ancients, this would’ve been the obvious purpose of writing: writing was one of the few ways for an individual to leave behind a legacy.
Today’s world of social media, digital photography, and blogging makes leaving a legacy easy. Using writing to leave your mark on history is harder, however, thanks to all the noise. So why are we still doing it? Are there simply more pragmatic reasons for it, or is there something about ‘the act of writing’ that continues to inspire people to “take up the pen”—or, more accurately, to pull out their laptop?
I like to believe the latter. Modern society tends to fetishize the various habits and rituals that accompany the act of writing—a sure sign that it continues to wield some mysterious power over us. One brilliant example of this is that stage in the career of every famous writer, where some magazine publishes an article discussing their writing idiosyncrasies.
“When I’m in writing mode for a novel, I get up at 4:00 am and work for five to six hours. In the afternoon, I run for 10km or swim for 1500m (or do both), then I read a bit and listen to some music. I go to bed at 9:00 pm. I keep to this routine every day without variation.”
—Haruki Murakami in The Paris Review
People love obsessing over these mundane details. Some writers have a prefered place to write: one particular room in their house or a favourite coffee shop. Some can only write on specific models of typewriters, others must compose early drafts longhand. Often a particular time of day allows them to write more easily. Or a specific exercise regime will permit better creativity.
Whatever the case, you’re tempted to ask: why do we care?
Because all writers want to unlock the secret to ‘great writing’.
And here’s the real secret: there’s no such thing as ‘great writing’. Writing only becomes great when others acknowledge it to be great. Until such a time, it’s just writing.
Another modern trend are writers who write obsessively about ‘the act of writing.’ Karl Ove Knausgaard is a great example of this, particularly in the New York Times-published pieces about his travels through America. Knausgaard’s “bare-all” style of narrative does more than just sell his family’s personal lives in some Faustian bargain for literary success. It turns the act of writing into a process of myth-making that’s both tedious and epic by turns.
Knausgaard’s writing circles back an early literary trend that began with Beat writers like Ken Kesey and Jack Kerouac. This generation of authors clung to the idea that experience is necessary for great writing. You have to live something before you can write about it.
But while figures like William S. Burroughs created writing-worthy experiences through sexual and pharmacological experimentation, Knausgaard just writes about the mundane. And it works, because what the Beats really got right was not the subject matter, but their process…
There’s no greater glory, it seems, than writing about something truly badass that you, or people you know, have done—and this holds true from Hemingway all the way back to Homer. Writing was creating reality TV before reality TV was ‘a thing’.
Ultimately, all writing is autobiography. This isn’t a new idea either, but it’s true on a couple of levels. First, all writing is forced to draw from your experience in some way; whether that experience comes from watching a TV show or from your fever dreams. You can’t write about something you have no framework for imagining. Second, you have to think through an idea before you can write about it—re-imagining the scenario as you plot out its linguistic depiction.
This inherent autobiographical tendency makes writing a supreme act of ego. The writer is basically standing there shouting, “Look at me, I am here! Pay attention to my thoughts!”
So is writing just a big ego trip then?
I don’t think so. In my mind, ‘the act of writing’ is synonymous with self-examination. It may be a supreme act of ego, but it’s a self-directed act of the ego—a person’s attempt to inspect and witness themselves (to a greater or lesser degree).
To write is to think deeply and intentionally about ourselves. And I think we keep doing this because, to quote Socrates again, “the unexamined life is not worth living.” And that’s why we are still writing, several millennia later—and why we’ll keep writing.
Thanks for reading! 🙂
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Greetings, Cousin-in-law!
I hope you don’t mind that I have creeped your blog—a two-year-old post, no less. I recalled that you mentioned it (the blog) this past weekend, and knowing your background in philosophy I was curious to see what it might contain. I like this post very much. My mom’s dad used to say, “better a short pencil than a long memory.” I wonder if he had read the Phaedrus (or Derrida…).
I hope you can correct my memory—am I right that Derrida argues in Of Grammatology that history has privileged the spoken word, whereas it is in fact text that is fundamental? (I hope I don’t have it backwards?) In any case, it is a question that seems to be inextricable from the subject of your post. Why do we write? Well, what is writing? Is it speech?
I think your point about writing being autobiography suggests an answer. If all writing is autobiography, then more fundamentally all writing is intentional, in the phenomenological sense: it’s about something (i.e., yourself). The principle act of writing, then, must be naming, locating and designating the entities to be written about. This observation is beautifully illustrated not only in Genesis, but also Tolkien. In the Quenta Silmarillion, the first-born children of Iluvatar not only name themselves, but name themselves according to their very ability to name: Quendi, “those who speak.”
The point, I suppose, is that naming is the fundamental act of both speech and writing. If, again, all writing is autobiography, which I believe it is, then all writing, as well as all speaking, is ultimately the naming of oneself. What fascinates me is that, by the very nature of speech and writing, let us say by the very nature of the word, you cannot name yourself without stepping outside yourself.
This may provide another perspective on the problem you pose at the end of the post: “So is writing just a big ego trip?” The true egoist, the solipsist, the madman, lives in a perfect and seamless sphere, into and out of which there is no passage. As Chesterton describes him: “[The madman’s] mind moves in a perfect but narrow circle. A small circle is quite as infinite as a large circle; but, though it is quite as infinite, it is not so large.” Not large enough to house anything but himself, hence his egoism. Even if only a mirror managed to breach the sphere, and he were confronted with nothing other than his own image, nevertheless in order to behold himself he must needs exit himself. Whereas before, when nothing existed in his world but himself, he did not recognize himself. Before, when he beheld himself, he did not say “there am I,” but “there is the world.” It is precisely self-reflection that reveals to him that he and the world are not one, that the world is other, and greater, than him.
To return to your point, it is precisely in recognizing ourselves, and preeminently in endeavoring to speak our own names—as you say, to examine ourselves, to inspect and witness ourselves—that we come out of ourselves and, like Tolkien’s elves, enter the world. The unexamined life, the “unwritten” life, is not worth living, because only the examined life is lived in the real world.
I also enjoyed your post on Ursula K. Le Guin. The Left Hand of Darkness has been on my list for a while… It is both a blessing and a curse that there are more good books in the world than I could ever read in a lifetime. But more a blessing. It was great to see you at the Cottage, and I look forward to our next meeting, whenever it may come.
– Philip
Hi Philip,
Thanks for the comment! I am glad to hear that you creeped my blog, mostly because it means that someone is actually reading all of this stuff and nothing brings me greater pleasure than that knowledge.
I cannot say with any reasonable degree of certainty that your memory about Derrida is correct, but it seems to match my understanding of him. The speech vs. writing debate is definitely tied into the subject of this post. I like your line of thinking with writing being fundamentally an act of naming. I would say that writing is a self-naming, a living-out of our internal subjectivity, in such a way that makes it an object of our own perception. Personally, I find that I will often write or journal when I’m trying to work through an difficult problem — I will also sometimes talk to myself out loud on walks, for the same reason; I can observe my own thoughts more easily.
As for ego trips, I do think that writers can be madmen — in fact, some of the most conspicuous writer have arguably been madmen. Writing can be a madman’s ego trip; a journey within that self-contained circle. Personally, I feel like many of James Joyce’s later works fall into this camp — along with many other writers that I enjoy. I don’t think that this negates the act of self-examination, of naming, it’s simply that you’re naming yourself in a certain way.
There is a lot to explore on this particular subject, which doesn’t lend itself well to the comments section of a blog. Perhaps something to chat about at a future date? It was great to spend some quality time with you at the Cottage and I also look forward to doing it again soon! Hope Caitlyn and young James are well, please send my love. 🙂
Best,
Alex
Alex,
“I would say that writing is a self-naming, a living-out of our internal subjectivity, in such a way that makes it an object of our own perception.” I agree entirely. Hence, its ecstatic effect. In order to behold your own internal subjectivity, you must stand opposite it, so to speak—you must exit it, must come out of yourself.
In that light, it would only be technically correct to say that a madman succeeds in self-examination. From his perspective, he examines the world; only he has confused the world with himself. It surely is possible to name yourself in various ways, but there is at least one way that fails, and that is to name yourself “Everything.” A name that fails to distinguish what it names, fails to name.
For this reason, it is the very mark of madness that it is unremarkable. It is wholly boring. It fails to see any distinctions in life, any color, difference, or conflict. And for this reason, I must disagree with you about Joyce. Ulysses borders on self-absorption, but that is not madness, and it is fascinating precisely because Joyce’s self is so well observed, so dramatically and strikingly rendered, so striking, in fact, as almost to offend. I will not attempt a remark on Finnegan’s Wake, since, like everyone else, I have not read it. (And I am obliged to mention that I did not manage to finish Ulysses…)
But you were right about the comments section of a blog—I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself! I absolutely look forward to our next opportunity to speak in person.
Best wishes,
Philip