Masha had this to say about meaning, and art, and intention:
To write without agenda, I suppose the vision must be to share the goodness first and foremost, leaving the news to be discovered by those willing to dig for it, to open our ears to the whisperings of God, of winter nights, of bitter old women and laughing girls, and then to write them all without fear they might upset our little world.
I think that’s beautiful. But it doesn’t work quite like that for me. At least, not anymore. I don’t think of the literary arts as being in any way connect to an agenda, any sort of agenda. They are their own thing.
I know what I want to say, vaguely, when I sit down to write something. But not in specific words, because if I could say it in, say, a blog post, well then I should write a blog post instead of a story. A story is its own word. I might know how it works, and I certainly think we have a responsibility to learn how to let a story speak clearly. But the story isn’t necessarily connected with any outside goodness or ideal or belief. It’s just itself. It just is.
So Masha gives us the words of Oscar Wilde:
God and other artists are always a little obscure.