Think about your writing experiences. For most of you, these will be memories of solitude. Sitting in quiet, dark rooms, with a hot cup of tea, slapping the keys until something you hopefully don’t hate conjures itself on the page.
Writing is a lonely task most of the time. But that doesn’t mean it is only inward facing. In fact, in a certain light, writing looks nothing like an act of isolation and instead is an act of pure communion.
Interests.
Every human is unique. Unique in their choice of dress. Unique in their taste for deserts. And, of course, Unique in their interests.
At one time in human history, it may have been difficult to find people with shared interests. But these days, humans around the globe are connected to each other by means of the written word. We support sporting teams in forums, chat about rocks in comments sections, and follow silly little blogs to obsess over stories and such.
Our ability to form groups around our interests is innate, no doubt. But writing has vastly varied the number of interests we can form communities around, and online text has sent this number into the stratosphere.
Beliefs.
Humans are believing entities. We have beliefs about how we should act, what the world is, and why any of it is here at all. But this is no private thing. Humans form beliefs as parts of communities. For thousands of years we did this through oral traditions. But since the invention of writing, communal belief has been largely inseparable from the written word.
How many religious communities form around texts? The Bible, the Rigveda, the Cat in the Hat. We could say the same for political creeds. Where would capitalism be without Adam Smith’s writings, liberalism without John Locke’s, socialism without Marx’s, feminism without Wollstonecraft's?
Writing has expanded and preserved communities of belief for millennia, better than any other human invention, and will continue to do so deep into the future.
Distance.
Imagine you're in an ancient Roman army on campaign in Gaul. You have a mother back home, or a wife, or a friend. How do you let them know how scary the Gauls are in their blue paint? Or how boring porridge is without fermented fish sauce? There is, of course, only one way: writing.
Writing letters keeps you close despite the distance. It was like this in the ancient world and is still here today, albeit in a different form. Writing in letters, or now in direct messages of various kinds, provides the capacity to stay connected regardless of location.
It means that we can spread our wings and venture over new horizons, while still maintaining our place around the hearth in our hearts, with those we love.
Beyond.
Our civilisation will likely not last forever. What a shame it would be if we left no sign of our beauty, our ugliness, our delight for fluffy animals falling over.
Our written work may give future civilisations, or even alien ones, a chance to know us. This should come as no surprise, for we ourselves are already one of these future civilisations.
People of the past speak to us on a daily basis, across millennia. Any time we read the words of a long-dead author, we are in communion across time. They become part of our own mind and story, and by doing so, make themselves immortal.
Cosmos.
All writers know the feeling of solitude. Writing madly in dark rooms with a belly full of tea and a heart full of tears. But sometimes it feels like I'm writing, not just for me, or others, or Santa, but for existence itself.
There are fleeting moments in the early hours of the day, when the world sleeps, where I feel larger than myself. I feel like the world moves through me, or more, that I'm the same as the world. I'm everything and everything is me.
Even when I’m with my closest friends, I don’t feel quite so whole as this. There really is nothing in the world, at least for me, that makes me feel less alone. After all, what could feel more like communion, than when that feeling encompasses literally all of existence?
Know Me.
I often speculate that the primary reason I write is to feel like I can make myself known to other minds. As someone who typically feels unseen (mainly because I’m so solitary), it is the one way for people to get a sense of my true being.
My normal daily words don't do the job. They are shallow trinkets; the treasure lies deep below. Hidden beneath years of learned defences that even I am barely aware of.
Writing, whether philosophically as I do here, or fictionally as I do elsewhere, allows me to dredge up all the odd little things that percolate in the depths of my soul and shout them into existence. It is the breaker of barriers. One that I cannot live without.
And I can't be the only one. How many authors, past and present, have desired to be known by their ink? Perhaps you also?
Reflections.
Learning isn’t about what you take in. It is about how you yourself process it. So try these reflection questions for yourself:
Is it true that writing is communion?
If not, is it still useful to think this way?
How might thinking this way change your writing?
What are the pitfalls of thinking this way?
How do you commune via writing?
Could you feel full communion without it?
Would writing be so pervasive without this element of communion?
This is a beautifully written piece about how writing brings people together, but I wonder—does it unite more than it divides? While it helps form communities, history shows that words can also create division, spread polarization, and fuel conflicts. Maybe writing isn’t just about connection but also about the gaps it creates. How do we make sure it brings us closer rather than pushing us apart?