Writing for Odyssey is sometimes rewarding, but many times it is overwhelming and discouraging. There are weeks when I realize my articles have gotten a mere eight page views and I question whether or not writing is worth my time. I could be working on my research paper. I could be reading a book I enjoy or doing anything at all more productive than publishing an article that no one will read.
Maybe it is true that what I am writing is not important enough for anyone to care to read, but I refuse to believe that. I refuse to value my work based on approval of others or its popularity. I write because I am convinced that what I have to say will mean something, to someone, someday. Even if it is not today, it will matter eventually. I may ever know how one of my articles impacted someone else. I cannot expect anyone who is inspired by my work to tell me so. While it would be nice, that is simply not part of the bargain.
Writing is lonely work. It is baring your soul to someone who may appreciate or not. It is revealing what matters most to me to a public that may hate me or love me for it. That does not matter so much to me as how they receive my ideas. I am a mere medium, I am not the focus of my work. I do not write for myself. I write with the conviction that what I do serves some greater purpose. There are ideals higher than myself to which I am only a servant.
My greatest source of satisfaction would be to know that someone read my article and it challenged her perspective, gave her hope, made her think. I write for Odyssey because I have the freedom to write what matters to me. I am not censored or assigned to stories that do not interest me. Sometimes I experiment with different topics, but in the end, I always have the opportunity to make my voice heard on issues that I care very deeply about.
At least I can make my voice available. I make myself visible. Whether or not I am heard is largely dependent on the reader, the listener. The most discouraging aspect of writing is seeing that readers, society, does not care enough about the same issues I do to pay attention to what I write, let alone respond to it. To publish an article is to shout into the void, to hear one’s own voice echo back is to realize the vastness of that void from which there is no one to answer you but yourself.
I suppose that someone may hear me, and after hearing my voice reverberate long enough, they may respond. By then I may be long gone. One never truly knows how far a sound may travel. So I shout, and shout, and will continue to shout until my voice is hoarse from screaming and even then I will whisper.
