6
That's how many times I began a sentence on this bank page and deleted it.
The screen with its helpful delete options glosses over my failings. It is, in fact, gritting its teeth at my unfortunate honesty. "Did you really need to undo all that I did? Couldn't you allow them the illusion that these were the first words you placed here? Do you have to show them how lost you are?"
The Screen is right. She is efficient and looking out for my best interests. If she were in charge, there would not be a word out of place, and the lines would flow effortlessly, and no one would know of the detours taken and the bridges burnt. No one would see the flaws that shaped the piece.
But the Screen is not human.
She doesn't understand, that the ending of a story is not the story. That effort can be beautiful. And that sometimes, it is all that counts.
If it was easy, it wouldn't matter as much.
Language was created because once upon a time there was a woman (yes, probably a woman-- we are expected to explain ourselves more often than our counterparts) who was trying desperately to manage the turmoil inside. She learnt that when you can put words to the chaos, it becomes tangible, manageable, defeatable. The confusion gets exorcised into the vessel of the word, and then you have the satisfaction of crumpling up the offending page, pummeling it with the force of your emotions. (I admit, hitting the backspace button is not half as satisfying.) And, as is the nature of things, from necessity grew invention. When she found what words could do for pain and rage, she began to use it for other emotions-- doubt, fear, joy, uncertainty, hope, love. Words were our keys to a world we were not allowed to inhabit. In time we realised, the key became the world.
As a writer, and consequently a professional-level over-thinker, you realise that words must be chosen carefully. They spell the difference between different realities known and understood, experienced and imagined. Like an artist picks pigment, like a chef picks flavours, the writer picks words. She eyes their shape and colour, sniffs at them gingerly, weighs their heft in the hollow of the palm, gives it a shake to check for juice, and a quick lick to judge it's texture. Meticulous as harvesting magic herbs, the writer fills her basket. She then lays out her tools and sits in front of the enchanted page, attempting to create, to placate, to aggravate, to assuage. To pull out from her insides the truest form of her voice. And perhaps give voice to a truth she is still discovering. Because ultimately, the act of writing needs you to take something out of yourself.
Nothing is ever perfect. But every once in a while you stumble across a moment that is so close to the ideal, that is as addictive as it is elusive; a moment where, like providence, the pieces fall into a pattern closest to perfection that the author-- for once-- feels satisfied. Feels worthy. The words come streaming out like a pent up breath released in freedom. A sigh escaping in satisfaction. Or bright happy bursts of laughter and twinkling eyes. It rushes out like it was waiting for you to open the door, open yourself. Like it was waiting to greet the outside ever since it took shape. Sometimes the words are born to be released. And sometimes you need to tear them out and the mass clings to your insides, dragging bits of tissue and bone and blood as it makes its way outside, fighting the light with the ferocity of a hundred betrayals. As it finally lies on the pristine page, the splatter bleeds back into the shape of the letters and the author heaves in air into her gaping body and mind. Like there was never a fight.
The Screen clicks its teeth. This is inconsequential. What is the ending?
Nothing is perfect. Definitely not truth or its telling. But all writing is an attempt at truth. And the truth means nothing by itself. The truth is true because of the lies it overcame. Your words ring true when it is the closest to your reality that reality could be. The words make the truth. The words you didn't use make the truth. What you are makes the truth, just as much as what you could have been. And when you write, for a short while, both those Yous sit side by side, converse and create worlds.
The Screen is unimpressed.
That's how many times I began a sentence on this bank page and deleted it.
The screen with its helpful delete options glosses over my failings. It is, in fact, gritting its teeth at my unfortunate honesty. "Did you really need to undo all that I did? Couldn't you allow them the illusion that these were the first words you placed here? Do you have to show them how lost you are?"
The Screen is right. She is efficient and looking out for my best interests. If she were in charge, there would not be a word out of place, and the lines would flow effortlessly, and no one would know of the detours taken and the bridges burnt. No one would see the flaws that shaped the piece.
But the Screen is not human.
She doesn't understand, that the ending of a story is not the story. That effort can be beautiful. And that sometimes, it is all that counts.
If it was easy, it wouldn't matter as much.
Language was created because once upon a time there was a woman (yes, probably a woman-- we are expected to explain ourselves more often than our counterparts) who was trying desperately to manage the turmoil inside. She learnt that when you can put words to the chaos, it becomes tangible, manageable, defeatable. The confusion gets exorcised into the vessel of the word, and then you have the satisfaction of crumpling up the offending page, pummeling it with the force of your emotions. (I admit, hitting the backspace button is not half as satisfying.) And, as is the nature of things, from necessity grew invention. When she found what words could do for pain and rage, she began to use it for other emotions-- doubt, fear, joy, uncertainty, hope, love. Words were our keys to a world we were not allowed to inhabit. In time we realised, the key became the world.
As a writer, and consequently a professional-level over-thinker, you realise that words must be chosen carefully. They spell the difference between different realities known and understood, experienced and imagined. Like an artist picks pigment, like a chef picks flavours, the writer picks words. She eyes their shape and colour, sniffs at them gingerly, weighs their heft in the hollow of the palm, gives it a shake to check for juice, and a quick lick to judge it's texture. Meticulous as harvesting magic herbs, the writer fills her basket. She then lays out her tools and sits in front of the enchanted page, attempting to create, to placate, to aggravate, to assuage. To pull out from her insides the truest form of her voice. And perhaps give voice to a truth she is still discovering. Because ultimately, the act of writing needs you to take something out of yourself.
Nothing is ever perfect. But every once in a while you stumble across a moment that is so close to the ideal, that is as addictive as it is elusive; a moment where, like providence, the pieces fall into a pattern closest to perfection that the author-- for once-- feels satisfied. Feels worthy. The words come streaming out like a pent up breath released in freedom. A sigh escaping in satisfaction. Or bright happy bursts of laughter and twinkling eyes. It rushes out like it was waiting for you to open the door, open yourself. Like it was waiting to greet the outside ever since it took shape. Sometimes the words are born to be released. And sometimes you need to tear them out and the mass clings to your insides, dragging bits of tissue and bone and blood as it makes its way outside, fighting the light with the ferocity of a hundred betrayals. As it finally lies on the pristine page, the splatter bleeds back into the shape of the letters and the author heaves in air into her gaping body and mind. Like there was never a fight.
The Screen clicks its teeth. This is inconsequential. What is the ending?
Nothing is perfect. Definitely not truth or its telling. But all writing is an attempt at truth. And the truth means nothing by itself. The truth is true because of the lies it overcame. Your words ring true when it is the closest to your reality that reality could be. The words make the truth. The words you didn't use make the truth. What you are makes the truth, just as much as what you could have been. And when you write, for a short while, both those Yous sit side by side, converse and create worlds.
The Screen is unimpressed.
