There is catharsis in the solitary pursuit of writing about one’s life. It’s like sitting with a therapist, but the therapist is this illusive shadow sitting beside you echoing your thoughts until you recognize them and are ready to put them down on the page. Writing is also a form of marination, where old thoughts or feelings come to the surface only once fully simmered — and then plop, they’re out of your head.
What I see happen with writers is this: