Blog 72 - The Unknown Writer

Blog 72 - The Unknown Writer

September 2025

This blog is specifically for the unknown writers of this world, people just like you, so lean in close, dear reader, I have a truly terrifying thought experiment for you.
Picture, if you will, a world where the unknown writers suddenly… stopped writing.
I’m talking about a complete, global, pen-down, keyboard-off, brain-mute silence. No fresh articles, no snappy social media posts, no heartfelt letters, nothing…
Sounds dismal, right? Like a silent, black and white movie playing in slow motion, where everyone just stares blankly at each other, trying to remember what a good story felt like. It would be, to put it mildly, boring. Utterly, excruciatingly, soul-crushingly boring.
Now, before you go imagining a dystopian landscape piled high with unread literary masterpieces and cancelled Netflix series, let me clarify something vital. I’m not thinking about the best-selling novelists, the Pulitzer-winning journalists, or the screenwriters scooping up Oscars. Oh no. While their work undoubtedly enriches our lives and shapes our culture, they’re only part of the magnificent, messy tapestry of the written word.
Who are these other unknown writers? I hear you ask, I’m thinking about us. Yes, us!
The valiant scribblers, the tireless typists, the magnificent verbal architects who often write for nothing more than the sheer, unadulterated thrill of putting words together. We are the unsung heroes of the written word, the quiet ninjas of narrative, the often-uncredited architects of everyday understanding and delight. We are the ones crafting sprawling, intricate backstories for our Dungeons & Dragons campaigns, painstakingly detailing every elven lineage and goblin uprising. We are the architects of fan fiction universes, diving deep into beloved worlds to explore 'what if' scenarios that keep us up until 3 AM. We’re the journal keepers, pouring out our souls onto lined paper, creating personal histories that might never see the light of day but are utterly essential for our own sanity. We’re the poets who rhyme just for the rhythm, the short story enthusiasts who weave tales for an audience of one (or perhaps a very patient pet).
Our motivations aren't fame or fortune. They’re often far more primal: the urge to create, to understand, to connect, to simply express. The joy of seeing a sentence click into place, the satisfaction of a perfect turn of phrase, the quiet hum of a character coming to life under our fingertips – that's our reward. Our words don't always stay hidden, however, sometimes, our scribblings venture out into the wild, finding audiences in the most unexpected and charming of places. Remember that heartfelt birthday poem you penned for your grandma, the one that made her eyes mist up? Or the ridiculously elaborate scavenger hunt clues you wrote for your niece's birthday party? That’s writing! That long, rambling email catching up with a friend across the ocean, filled with witty observations and poignant reflections? Absolutely writing! The eulogy you agonised over, trying to capture a lifetime in a few powerful paragraphs? That’s some of the most important writing there is.
And then, there are our local publications. Ah, the community magazines, the parish newsletters, the local newspapers that land on our doorsteps, often a little dog-eared and smelling faintly of cheap ink. These are the unsung champions of local life, and they are, I daresay, often kept alive by people just like us. We are the ones who pitch stories about the annual village fete, the tireless efforts of the local gardening club, or the surprisingly dramatic saga of a runaway cat. We write the reviews for amateur theatre productions, the passionate pleas for better park facilities, or the surprisingly detailed account of Mrs. Henderson’s prized petunias winning first prize again.
And let's be honest, sometimes our pieces are solicited with the wonderfully blunt request: "We just need something to fill in the gaps between the adverts for the local plumber and the discount shoe shop." And do we mind? Not one bit! Because there's a perverse joy in seeing our carefully crafted sentences nestled between an ad for 'Speedy Septic Tank Services' and 'Dave's Driving School.' Our words are providing the connective tissue, the human element, the little moments of local colour amidst the demands of commerce.
Imagine if we stopped. No more quirky local histories, no more heartwarming tales of community spirit, no more gentle nudges for the council to fix that pothole. The local news would be a string of generic press releases, and what of those community magazines? They would become just pages and pages of adverts. Not quite the same, is it?
So, to every person who has ever put pen to paper, finger to keyboard, or even scratched words into the condensation on a window – for personal joy, for family connection, for a friend's amusement, or yes, to fill a gap between an advert for plumbing and a garage sale – I salute you. Your words matter. They weave the fabric of our everyday lives, bring colour to the mundane, and prevent our world from becoming that terrifying, silent, utterly boring place. Keep writing, you unknown hoards, you beautiful unsung heroes. The world, in all its glorious, un-boring chaos, needs you.