Writing is a powerful tool. It gives a voice to those who’ve never been heard, strength to those who’ve lost it, and solace to those who need it. For in our words we can find ways to express ourselves and be understood. Words present an unalterable window into the past. Once written they create a picture, a shadow of what’s already happened or what was expected by those who came before us. In words we can behold all the knowledge of history and still project futures yet to come, an infinite resource with which to shape our lives.
And so I wonder, what will future generations think of when they read my work? Will they break down my biography as gleaned from scattered scraps and articles – female, young, English speaking – or will they sympathize with my curiosity, my failures, and my desires? I wonder if they will judge me as I have judged myself, swayed by the bias of the first perspective, or if they will see how I lived and loved and lost with the neutrality of objective study. Or will I even be worth reading at all?
It’s possible, likely even, that I will fade in the histories as a nameless member of the crowd. I may become just one of hundreds of thousands present at X historical event, lumped in with others of my demographic to show the movement of many, but never be remembered as an individual.
But I want my life to mean something to a few, if not to many. I want to be remembered by those who matter, and have my words be cherished by those who can appreciate all the thoughtful, mundane, and even fantastical things I’ve written. As there have been authors to touch and shape my own life, so too do I wish to be such a writer for someone else.