Writing as Thinking

 

Why do we keep writing, even when we don’t fully understand the reason ourselves? This simple question leads to something deeper about thought, language, and habit.

What discourages me most about writing a blog is when what I write is rejected or denied.

Since that possibility is always there, one might conclude that it would be easier to stop writing altogether. And yet, I continue. I don’t really understand why.

Perhaps many bloggers feel the same. They write without clearly knowing their own reason.

Is the act of writing itself the goal, or is it the act of expressing one’s thoughts? If I tried to organize that distinction, I might find an answer. But at least for me, I don’t feel that I have anything in particular I want to “send out” to the world.

　

Then is writing itself the purpose? Not quite.

It’s not as if I would die if I stopped. I could quit anytime. If I don’t have time, I simply don’t write that day.

But when I do have time, I write again the next day.

　

So why is that?

Perhaps humans simply like to think.

My flat-coated retriever, Anne, seems to think only about playing. When she sees me, she brings a ball, licks my face, or sleeps when she’s calm.

I, too, would be happy to keep playing with her forever. But at some point, I start to wonder, “Is this really enough?” I stop playing, and begin doing something else—or thinking about something.

　

Most of those thoughts are trivial, things that disappear almost immediately.

And yet, one of those trivial thoughts happens to be in my mind at a given moment, gets put into words, and remains.

In other words, something that would have been meaningless is preserved, just slightly, as a record of thought—simply because it has been verbalized.

　

This act of “verbalization” is quite interesting.

As a pathologist, I describe cells and tissues almost every day. I can put the state of the human body into words reasonably well.

But when it comes to describing food, scenery, or music, I am not particularly skilled.

I cannot even properly describe the taste of wine.

That is why translating the electrical signals constantly moving through my brain into language should be a highly sophisticated act.

And yet, I can do it without much effort. That, to me, is something rather curious.

　

I started writing from the question of why I keep writing a blog every day.

In the end, it turned into a reflection on how complex an act this really is.

If one reads this piece from beginning to end, perhaps the path of my thinking—its flow—becomes faintly visible.

And that, in its own way, is interesting.

 

Perhaps writing is nothing more than giving shape to thoughts that would otherwise disappear.