Writing Is Its Own Beauty
We had a big snowstorm here recently, and as I was (inside, snuggly and cozy) staring out my back window, I noticed a tree had fallen and been caught horizontally among neighbouring trees. With the snow cover and sunlight, it was a beautiful sight.
That’s when it struck me that I own that tree. It’s on our property, part of a small forest, yet it seemed strange to think that yes, I “own” that tree. And perhaps legally, that’s true, but that tree was here long before me and, unless I take an axe to it, its fallen trunk will be here long after me.
It reminded me of a phrase from the English poet John Keats. “How beautiful are the retired flowers? How they would lose their beauty were they to throng into the highway crying out ‘admire me, I am a violet! Dote upon me, I am a primrose!’” Keats’s argues that the flower is beautiful because it just is. Just as “my” tree is beautiful because it is. Not because I “own” it, or even because I’m taking the time to admire it.
Our writing is the same way. Of course we want our writing to say read me! We want editors and readers to dote upon us, but our writing—like Keats’s flowers or my tree—has beauty in and of its own accord. Our writing isn’t about its reception, but its own inherent beauty.