Eugène Ionesco (at least) once wrote that one should write to oneself, as it is the only way to reach others. Had he not written that, another big name would have been needed to back up this trivial proposition. Only authority can transform trifle into deep thought.
Ionesco must have written that for himself, for it to reach his readership. Thus inquiring minds can wonder about the reason to write it in the first place. And cranky writers could ask if they would write that to themselves.
Writing to oneself might appear like a sensible intention. To write is tough enough that one should be pleased with what one writes. Reading one's texts might also sound awkward, not unlike when one hears one's voice. The shadows of doubt always lurk around one's writings.
All by himself, a writer can only acknowledge his uncertain pride. Sometimes this alone gives a good reason to write in the first place. Oftentimes, the confidence comes from a readership that grows. Readers attract readers, after which the questioning somehow stops; being read entails being authentic, after all.
Or is it? Maybe not, but how can one know for sure?
