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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