On Writing

At one point, I fancied myself a gifted writer. It came as naturally to me as breathing; stories filled my head every waking moment, and would frequently drag me out of sleep and dance around my head until I feverishly wrote the idea before it would allow peace enough to sleep. Reading, one of my great passions, would further fuel my imagination--my thoughts would gallop away from a single word or phrase or idea until I realize that I have been staring unseeingly at the same page for an indeterminate amount of time.

The odd thing is, I never wanted to be a author. It was not something I chose; it felt like a destiny that was dragging me steadily onward toward the eventual end-point whether I wanted it to or not, “ka”. To me, it was an unchangeable descriptor the likes of “Caucasian”, “Christian”, or “Brown-eyed”. Sure, I could tan, abandon or change my religion, or wear colored contacts, but it would forever be bubbling beneath the surface, evident to all who looked, but to no one so much as to myself. As far as gifts go, this is not the worst that could be had. It brings honor and respect and critical acclaim, in its own modest way. It creates a legacy that will far outlive yourself, a physical imprint on literature, no matter how insignificant or unnoticed.

What if you don’t want to be remembered? Your dreams are understated and unassuming; getting married, having a family, leading a good life are the chiefs of your concern. As a general rule, writers don’t seem to be the most sociable of sorts. Observant, yes. Perceptive to a fault. Introspectiveness and sensitivity and emotions that are sometime too great to feel make it far more comfortable to withdraw from society, social contact, meaningful friendships.

What is worse, when you turn yourself inside out and force all these out of you and onto the page..well, then everyone can see you for imperfect you. Not that smile you have plastered on your face or that polite, demure demeanor you hide behind, but the real, dirty, worrisome, quarrelsome you. The person that we spend our lives repressing and dismissing and hiding because it is not “socially acceptable”; that’s the dirty little secret after all--we are far from socially acceptable.

Then what is the worst fate: being published or being rejected? At least with rejection, you can soothe your wounded ego that some of the greatest artists and authors were unappreciated and ridiculed in their own time; that this very personal creation of yours can go back into seclusion (not unlike yourself), and spend the rest of its days protected and waiting.

No, I think it would be far worse for it to be released unto the world. Then all eyes are on you, in a far more vulnerable state than naked. Looking into your every thought and word and phrase, examining it and interpreting it, changing it. They have stolen and taken charge of your creation, and without your consent it is becoming something ugly and unrecognizable.

Oh then, horror of horrors, you have to TALK about it.

It doesn’t make any definable sense! How can someone that has such a command of the English language, the master word-crafter that has woven so intricate and engaging a story to have drawn the attention of the world...how can they be so clumsy and inarticulate when spoken to? Why do the words that plague me night and day for years, decades, at a time until they overflow and pour to the page allude me, skipping my voice all-together as it rushes to my flying fingertips and out of my head?

Of course, objectively it is perfectly understandable. I have been sitting for an unknown amount of time, in the dark, alone, not uttering a word to another living soul as the demon that drives me exorcizes this damned story out through my pores. My skin has paled from such infrequent sunlight, my eyes painfully sensitive to the light they scarcely remember. Why can my mouth, too, have not forgotten its function? You see, there are no halfway measures with writing. If you want it, if you truly give yourself over to it; nothing else can exist, nothing else can take precedence. Heaven help you if you don’t have a choice.

Maybe you’ll get lucky and get a spouse that understands. An independent individual that can entertain themselves without resentment as you pound away on the keyboard, dead to the world and dead to them. Missed meals, one-sided conversations, and undone chores become the norm; the unasked question of how much longer you will be indisposed is unanswerable. You don’t know how long you will be; the last conscious decision you made was to start a book, and then you’ve been dragged along for the ride, as helpless to stop or get off as your poor, neglected spouse.

I once fancied myself a gifted writer. Then I grew older and tried to adopt my own interests. I got married, I had kids. I learned how to crochet a scarf and bake muffins; I went to church and volunteered in ministries. I thought I had built a life for myself outside the demanding bitch of a mistress that writing had become.

For me, there was no escape though. You can’t be what you are not, and you can pretend and lie to yourself for only so long. My mind fogged over, my eyes grew blurry. My focus began to wane, and my attention span became nonexistent. Conversation grew baffling, and I was unable to support my end without a great deal of incoherent responses and frequent repetitions. Depression took over; then anger. Irrational, consuming anger. Emotions fled to the surface of my skin, and everything I felt was overwhelming and raw. Insatiable lust, inexplicable sadness, ecstatic mirth...there were no half-measures, no control. Several times a day, I would double over in spasms of anxiety that washed over my body in shuddering, panicked waves when there was no overt cause for my distress.

Finally, my body began to show signs of strain. Soreness, tiredness, pain and cramps became my constant companions. I can no longer deny the truth: the stories that I have ignored and beaten down, dismissed and neglected have infected my body and have become toxic. You can choose to be a writer, but when you are one, you can never choose to be anything else. God or nature or personality have given you this one true outlet, this one way to purge yourself until you are naked and clean; you have to break yourself to make yourself whole.

I once fancied myself a gifted writer.

I know now that is not true.

I am an inherent, a cursed, an unchangable, unexchangable, irreplaceable, insatiable, unavoidable writer; I know no other way.

And so: I write.