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Writing and Raging Against the Machine
A portrait of the writer as a voice in the wilderness
A number of years ago I learned of a woman who lived alone in a quiet neighborhood in St. Paul, Minnesota. Hers was a quiet life. She had never married and had no children. Born an only child, she had no immediate family as both her parents were dead. Nestled in that small home, she lived a solitary existence.
The inside of her home, however, was filled with artwork she herself had created. None of her pieces would ever be sold, displayed in a museum, or even seen by anyone other than those few who entered her home. Even though none of her art would ever make her any money or give her any notoriety, she continued to paint beautiful pictures.
Why?
Why would someone spend so much of their life in such a seemingly useless endeavor? Why would someone create such beauty only to hide it within the confines of her house? It took me a long time to understand, and it is only now that I am feeling the full weight of what she did.
She painted pictures for the same reason I write. I have been writing all of my life, having kept a daily journal beginning in 1974 and writing daily through 2009. Those journal entries never made me a cent. I received no recognition from anyone for having so steadfastly…
