I’ve known for months now this post was coming. These past few weeks I’ve made excuses not to write it, but I can’t stall forever. This is my 500th original post for this blog. I’ve been writing Bursts of Brilliance for a Creative Life for 10 years and 11 months. I’ve written more than 244,000 words, the equivalent of three novels.
For the most part, it’s been a weekly blog. And nearly always, it has steered clear of being pre-planned. Every week, I wrote about whatever question was pulling at my heart, feeding my curiosity, or fueling my passions.
A friend asked me recently what I thought I’d learned from writing this blog. What was the point? All I can say is somehow I arrived here, 33 years into a writing career, 57 years on this earth, 8 books and nearly 11 years of blogging under my belt, no significant fame, no real fortune, and no regrets.
But it’s true we humans can’t help but wonder sometimes, what did it all mean? Who did it serve? What difference did it make?
Because of the blog, I was asked to appear on a few radio shows and podcasts; I was picked up by some other bloggers and social media influencers and quoted in at least one book; I got to arrange some clever speaking gigs related to the blog; and I have a core group of avid followers, some of whom I’ve never met, who now feel like family to me.
The truth is, every single writer – whether they write fiction, nonfiction, memoir, children’s books, poetry, screenplays — is basically publishing a conversation with themselves. Teresa R. Funke, the writer, has been having deep philosophical discussions with Teresa Funke, the human. She’s been offering insights, encouragements, kicks in the butt, permissions, and camaraderie. The blogger has provided the human a safe place to admit her fears, obsessions, judgments, opinions, and doubts. She has challenged the human to grow wiser, only to challenge her months later to question that same wisdom.
Writing, though, is simply the means in which I conduct those conversations with myself. It’s the tool I’ve chosen. I think every scientist, educator, businessperson, health care provider, parent, artist, drug addict, criminal, and preacher is doing the exact same thing. We gravitate toward the places and people and professions that challenge us to constantly ask ourselves what we believe and whether what we believe matters at all.
It’s the conversations that have always interested me, much more than the answers. So, I explored them here. And like every writer and scientist and educator and preacher, I hoped that sometimes the questions I chose to ponder were questions that might interest you, as well. Nothing has made me happier than receiving a correspondence from a reader saying, “Yes, this!” It’s not so much that I felt seen, it’s that you gave me a chance to see you, and that is a feeling of connection that can’t be matched.
When I started out, I wanted to believe I was writing this blog for you, that if I said things just right –maybe with a bit of divine guidance—I could solve your problems and mine. I hoped that the blog would “take off” because by revealing myself, I would give you permission to reveal yourselves, too. That if you saw me struggling to understand something or heard me sharing a possible answer, you would feel less alone. I never assumed this blog was for everyone, or that any of you would read every single post, but I trusted that those of you who needed to hear the message, would somehow find it. That’s what I chose to believe, and like all things we believe, it was sometimes true.
What I now understand, though, is that this blog was always first and foremost for me, as I think all art is first and foremost for the artist. Yet it was you who inspired in me so many of the questions I explored. How often did I quote a friend or celebrity or line from a song in this blog? How many times did I repeat a comment I overheard or pose a question a friend had asked? How often did I refer back to my study of history or philosophy or medicine? I could not have written this blog without you, because without you, half the time I wouldn’t have known or been willing to admit to myself what question to ask.
And that is how we are connected. Yes, I wrote this blog for me, and it brought me great pleasure. It was my favorite part of the week. It was mostly my safe place, except for the moments when I worried what you might think. But maybe those moments of worry led to my greatest growth. Even if I didn’t entirely write this blog for you, I couldn’t have written it without you. And I sincerely hope it has served you, as much as it has served me.
I’m not sure how this blog will evolve. As a writer, I’ve been conversing with myself first in journalism articles, then in personal essays, then in novels, then in this blog, and then in a play, and maybe now it’s time to figure out a new way to have those conversations with myself, and a new way to invite you into the conversation. Maybe I will occasionally hop on here and write a post. Maybe it will become something entirely different. Maybe it will go away altogether.
But whatever happens next, I intend to keep asking the questions, and I know you will too. Because that’s the whole point of life, isn’t it? If we were born with the answers, what would be the purpose of the journey? And if we were to arrive at the answers, what more would we have to offer?
Find your place, find your people, find a profession where you can have conversations with yourself, and if you’re willing, share what you learned in those conversations with your students, your patients, your colleagues, your industries, your communities. It’s not egotistical to admit that some of the most important conversations you’ll ever have are with yourself, it’s only egotistical to think those conversations matter only to you.
This blog may not have changed the world, but it changed me, and in so doing, I hope I’m able to be a better, braver, stronger, more open member of this society. I hope I’m better able to listen. I hope I’m better able to serve. And if it took doing something for myself to make that happen, then I’m grateful.
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