The Write Life
A writer who isn’t willing to bare his/her soul will never truly be a writer is what they tell me. We’re (as if I am one) supposed to be the truth tellers, the ones that others can count on to say what they can’t, to shine a light on whatever is out there that goes bump in the night so as to illuminate the ugliness, the warts, the significant imperfections that make up humankind. I keep reading that trope over and over again like it’s my duty to focus on the grotesqueness of our lives as though there’s nothing worth living for, or if there is, to point out the negative at the expense of the positive.
The post-modernists have this view of living that borders on insanity in my view, which might explain why so many of them struggle with their own breathing. Over analysis seems to be the order of the day for that crowd and many others, but through that over-analysis can only find problems with few solutions. Angst, hate, and despair sells, I guess, as does the futility of humanity with all it’s flaws. It’s easy to point out problems, and maybe just as easy to come up with solutions — but viable solutions are something else. Tossing pennies on the street is easy, tossing a penny into a can at fifty-feet is hard.
So many writers seem to be tortured people. In fact, come to think of it, so many artists are tortured people. Yes, to me, writing is an art, art at it’s highest level for great literature, like great works of art, seem immortal, but do I really have to cut my ear off? I get the sense that certain people won’t take you seriously as an artist if you’re not tortured in some way, and that torture should be reflected in your art or what you write.
Yes, expression takes many forms, especially in this Instagram, Twitter, and Tic-Toc universe we’re all part of now, but for me, expression doesn’t mean deliberately putting oneself in a flagellation box just to be able to write beautifully (as if I do) or meaningfully. What it means is to be able to tap into yourself on a profound level — a level that requires an honesty with oneself that most cannot bear, and then pull that root out and write about it. Maybe that’s why so many writers are alcoholics; seems to be part and parcel with the job from what I’m gathering as it takes profound effort to dig that deep. While libations can certainly “free the mind” a bit, the act of requiring such seems in excess to me.
The magic is in one’s self connection which can be reached in many ways. All of us have blocks, blocks that we create so the outside world doesn’t see what we truly are. We know what we are, in totality, but everyone else sees what we allow them to see — and that changes with the company we keep. Precious few of us, very precious few, present themselves as they truly are. We can’t and we won’t — for the consequences can be steep. But…
Writers are supposed to pull back that rug and allow the rest of us to see under it, stealing a glance at what humanity is — and giving up part of themselves in the process. All to often it’s tar and feathers under that rug, or at least what’s presented to us. They tell us, those that teach writing, there has to be “badness” in your work or there won’t be tension. Without tension, there’s no story, and without a story, there’s no writer.
Where is the tension in a painting of flowers? Of a scene in a park? In two people holding hands? The Mona Lisa? In Walden? Is a picture that much different than word on a page?
Maybe writers write for the critics. I’ve been following many on social media (a lurker as opposed to a poster) as I try to learn my craft and I’m amazed at how many are writing for what’s selling now — and maybe selling themselves out in the process. Looking for publishers and writing to what they want, which is also a fascinating exercise as LGBTQ and women’s fiction seems to be all the rage in the writing community (seems as if every agent is only interested in those genres right now almost to exclusion of everything else). If we’re, as writers (as if I am one) are supposed to write honestly, does that mean to sell out just to get published? If people wish to read what you write, as I used to tell potential collegiate athletes, they’ll find you. Being a chameleon maybe works for some, but not for most.
Maybe I’m destined to sit in my study and pound away at my keyboard for the rest of my post-teaching life and my voice will never be heard. Maybe people aren’t ready or want to read about the aging process or what it’s like on a cool southern morning as I sip my coffee under my favorite tree, the crisp air biting at my bare arms with the cacophony of bird song heralding another morning under the bright southern sun. Maybe they’re not interested in historical fiction set in the late 14th century Aegean Sea…maybe I’m not good enough to be heard. That’s ok. Truly.
Every writer (as if I am one) wants to be read, and every writer, good or bad, has something to say. If it’s written, it’s said. If no one hears it, so be it — in the end we all have something to say and sadly, most of it goes unheard — the tree falling in the forest is often unheard too. The point is I’m going to write, write as honestly as I can. I’m not a tortured soul and don’t intend to be. I’m just being me.
