Sep 7, 2015 Writing 101

Inhabiting A Hidden Reality (Why I Write)

At the heart of all human experience lies a truth, hidden, shy, an irritant that promises to become a beautiful (or ugly) pearl.  I’m interested in finding that oyster in which that pearl grows.  I’m interested in its environs, and in the irritant, the pearl.

I want to be the lenses that see the truth clearly, darkly — and the screen on which the truth reveals itself.

I want to see the waving fronds, and bugs and fish at the bottom of the lake, not just the shining surface, and the glimmer of sunlight on little waves.  I like layers upon layers of things — air-currents, water, earth, onions, reality.

I want to be the prism that breaks truth into its component colors, and puts it back together.

Enough for now with the metaphors — for I think in metaphors, and have a weakness for them, but they can be like fun-house mirrors, sometimes.

There are times when I want to be direct and forceful.

At other times, I shy away from brutal reality, and want to allude, hint, insinuate — because reality can be painful, ugly, unaesthetic, unappealing.  Coming at it sideways, athwart, slant-wise seems to help me deal with things.

I write because I cannot imagine not writing; I used to write every day as a teenager, and was compulsive about it, but now, I’m not, and want to be.  But because I don’t like writing something I don’t like, I tug at the reins.  I self-edit — sometimes a little too much.  This is both a weakness and a strength (I suppose — for one defends one’s choices).

I write to please myself, and I hope that my writing will please others.  I don’t really worry whether everyone likes my work (although, like every writer, I would hope that people do like what I write).  I do want to find my tribe, those whose minds mesh with mine, who appreciate the words I love, who will appreciate the stories I write (and will write soon), and whose stories and words I will love as well.

I worry I might not have much to say, because everything has already been said.

Then, I remember that MY eyes are mine, and I like seeing through them, and re-inventing the world around me through my own lenses.

I write because when I do, it feels as though a pressure that was being exerted on my chest is being eased.

Writing can be delicious, just like reading, like eating my favorite crunchy Indian snacks.

I like eating and being in my body

I love reading beautiful writing, and being in another writer’s world.

I LOVE writing, and being in my own universe.

This is impromptu, unedited (okay, I went back and added a “the” — and deleted a phrase, and added another phrase).  Thank you for reading!

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Tags: Why I Write