I am given to understand that self‑indulgent writing is a vice frowned upon by society at large. That a writer ought to be useful, or humble, or at least efficiently forgettable. This advice often arrives solemnly, as if concision were a moral imperative and the one making such observation of your work was not mad, but certainly expected you to be as disappointed in yourself as they were. But the charge itself contains a small confession… someone has noticed the indulgence. Someone kept reading.
When an idea finally sits still long enough to be described you can write an expression to define the curvature of a thought or measure the force that gives weight to a word.
Writing, like scales on a piano or footwork drills in a gym, is an exercise. Exercises are repetitive, self-reflective, and rarely optimized for the spectator. Their virtue lies not in immediate service but in the slow strengthening of capability. We don’t accuse a runner of narcissism for jogging in place, nor a violinist of vanity for playing arpeggios nobody clapped for. We understand intuitively that physical ability is maintained by training. Writing is no different. To write for the mere purpose of efficient communicate is to starve the instrument that makes communication possible.
Self‑indulgence, in this sense, is simply attention paid to one’s own sentence-making. When an idea finally sits still long enough to be described you can write an expression to define the curvature of a thought or measure the force that gives weight to a word. Thrilling. This is not a sin, it is the work. If, occasionally, that work results in prose that looks at itself in the mirror a beat too long, the harm is negligible but the benefit accumulative.
There is also a jurisdictional matter. You are reading my blog. That fact quietly resolves several disputes. I get to decide the topic, the tone, the tempo. This space is not a town hall; it is a workbench. You are free to observe, to disagree, to leave. You may even be inspired to do the most radical thing of all… open a blank page elsewhere and arrange your own thoughts exactly as you prefer.
Which, incidentally, is the point. Writing begets writing. Indulgence practiced here may provoke discipline elsewhere. If you find this work unnecessary, take comfort that it may still have served its purpose. I have exercised the muscle. You have confirmed its existence. And if you want something different, why don’t you go write your own blog?