The act of writing

Brian YS Wong December 18, 2024 22:20

“Why do we write?”

One way of answering this question is by reflecting upon its counterpart, “Why do we read?”
We read for a plurality of reasons – instrumentally, as a source of information, inspiration, knowledge, and para-knowledge (knowledge about fictional universes that cannot be easily reduced into or incorporated into everyday knowledge, for it is obviously untrue, by definition and stipulation); intrinsically, as an enjoyable, escapist activity, one that transports us to a (or, more precisely, births in our minds) a parallel reality, one that both augments and diminishes, stretches and subverts the world we inhabit. To be able to read, is one of the greatest gifts ever bestowed upon humanity – for it has enabled us to retrieve insights from generations of wise folks, long before our times; in the modern times, it also allows us to make sense of cultures utterly disparate and distinct from ours, thanks to all sorts of hi-tech gadgets that allow for prompt and instantaneous translation of texts.

And so, we write for the corresponding reasons – to impart information, to provide inspiration, to generate and critique knowledge, to construct para-knowledge. We write to enable others to escape from the absurd, mundane, and inane lives that they lead, to open up doors and shed light on thoughts never thought of before. The greatest writers are thus granted the unique prerogative and prowess of bending, altering, and reshaping public consciousness and understanding of the world we live in – they do not merely create possibilities; they realise them. We only need to turn to the various intellectual giants who have contributed towards public discourse and understanding throughout human history for a glimpse into this point – Virgil, Li Bai, Jane Austen, Fan Zhongyan, or, more contemporarily, Lu Xun, Mo Yan, Albert Camus, and Margaret Atwood.

Victor Hugo taught us about the murkiness of morality, whilst Jean-Paul Sartre questioned the very premises of our discourses on morality. Derek Parfit wielded his pen to construct, deconstruct, and reconstruct some of the most intriguing philosophical puzzles of the 20th century, whilst Karl Marx wrote (and spoke) to transform a political ideology into a lived yet fantastical (or fanatic?) reality for many.

The pen can indeed be mightier than the sword.

Yet there is more to writing than these noble, communicative goals, all of them underpinned by the belief that it is a virtuous tool of persuasion, of influence, of intellectual seduction. In the study of fine speeches, fine arts, and fine literature, we talk ourselves into believing that we only write to change others – but in so doing, we neglect the cathartic nature of writing.

Writing is valuable, because it is innately expressive. From my diction – my choice of words – to the subtext (sometimes, there’s more than one), from the examples I include, or exclude, to the form that permeates the substance, to partake intentionally and thoughtfully in writing, is akin to removing a unique yet regeneratable part of myself (The Substance, anyone?) and sharing it with my audience.

Except the audience need not exist in order for this exercise to be fruitful. Singing in the shower is an activity that has no audience, yet many of us draw comfort from the process – as one where we can “get our voices” out there. Getting our voice out, is far more important than getting our message through, in many instances. I firmly believe writing serves a crucially cathartic purpose – one that allows for the expunging of malaise, like a long-bedridden asthmatic patient coughing out the sputum that has blocked their trachea.

Yet there is also something profoundly intellectual about writing for oneself – as opposed to any others. We write to filter and sift through our many thoughts for insights, to make out the signal amidst all the noise, and to crystallise our own contemplations and reflections about the world around us.

Indeed, you are your own best reader, for you are the reader who understands best your own nooks and crannies, your proclivities and twists and turns. Of course, if you read what you write carefully, there also exists something inherently unfamiliar about your text – especially text extracted out of you under high pressure and deeply intimate settings: the subconscious, what some would dub the Id, which occasionally surfaces to leave impressive trails and marks on your prose.

It is for this precise reason that some of the best political analysts and geopolitical strategists out there are also the most voracious and capable readers – they spend hours on end pouring through pages, to figure out the strengths and weaknesses, thought patterns and fixations of the subconscious of their subjects of profiling analysis.

And yes, writing is indeed an act – as opposed to merely an art, as the cliched saying goes. We write with authority that is oft unearned, with confidence undeserved, and with beliefs not wholly well-formed and formulated with precision. None of this need deter us from embracing the act, for the simple fact that acting is a constitutive part of our lives.

No one is a perfect knower; no one is perfectly informed about anything (save from the most trivial and hence anodyne a priori truths) though and that is why we must learn via vigorous writing, reading, debating, and questioning. The key crux lies with whether the writing we produce reflects original, independent, and autonomous thinking.

If we write only to placate and imitate, then we will never, ever succeed. If we write only to provoke and contradict, then we will end up unwitting and unwilling misanthropes – entrapped by our own conceit. If we write to liberate our minds and unleash our more productive inner selves, however, that is indeed how we succeed.

Brian YS Wong

Assistant Professor, HKU