on writing
From a secret place 💜The hardest thing for me to write about has always been writing itself. Though I’ve spent so much time reading what other writers have written and said around writing, there is always a gap there. The space between the writer telling you how they have arrived at the page and the cognitive events that must take place inside of a writer to get them to the page, the parts of a writer that happen entirely off the page.
I used to think there was writing worth sharing, writing worth keeping to yourself, and writing worth trashing. And though I still believe in all three to some degree, I’m realizing more and more that the private writing holds a weight far greater than the others. It is writing with an audience of one, writing with no shame or inkling towards censorship, no qualifiers, writing that belongs to the soul. There exists this same gap in the writing you share and the writing you keep to yourself; what is you and what is the you you bring to a public forum. Sometimes the gap swallows honesty, rawness, the parts of writing that feel alive. It takes practice to find the balance between writing with spirit and writing that feels like drawing blood. But shrinking this gap is how we edge closer and closer towards generosity in art; allowing the most vulnerable assets into the light. It’s something I’m always still learning how to do, like boundaries, love, and self-control. I started this blog mainly because I was sick of not getting to share my writing, of tailoring and pitching my writing for literary magazines and media sites only to have it rejected. I often feel that I sever a part of my “trueness” when I write to sparkle for other people. The writing I love best is always what sparkles for me. And though there are ways around this, I’m starting to care less and less about finding them. I am bitter maybe or a non-conformist or an Aquarius or an Enneagram 4.
The state of media in America is actively dissipating. Many outlets I once aspired to write for have shuttered, laying off talented writers in the process. And though I write every day, for a living, I’m rarely asked to inject this voice into that writing. There are safe and unsafe ways to share your ideas with the world; and to me, right now, something akin to this feels safest. Or maybe more accurately, something like this feels autonomous. When I was a bit younger, it felt much easier to share vulnerable pieces of writing on my old blog (which you can read here). When I read that writing now, I feel a nostalgia for the ease with which I shared huge chunks of my heart. I was less afraid of revealing too much of myself. I had fewer wounds to understand and then, articulate. I suppose that’s something that comes with time and learning to protect yourself / learning that not all of you is up for consumption. In fact, none of you has to be.
When we have the debate over separating the art from the artist, I understand it as an avid consumer of art, media, books, movies, and television. I understand it as the audience member who wants to go on loving things born of problematic or violent pasts. But as the artist, as the writer, I know I am wholly inseparable from my writing; this is both me, an extension of me, and a divisible entity that is fully up to your interpretation. A violence in and of itself. It’s also true to say I’m inseparable from my own problematic and violent pasts. I am this way because of these things, I am this way from living as I have.
Writing continues to be an altar, a place where I come to lie down what has grown too heavy to carry around just in my brain and in my heart. It can also feel nagging and difficult. It can also feel pointless. This is okay, this is just part of it. My favorite line from T.S. Eliot’s poem, The Wasteland is no longer the Sanskrit chant tattooed on my neck (though I still love it just as much). It’s the line that comes just before or just after, depending on where you are in the poem.
These fragments I have shored against my ruins.
Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata (the words on my neck) translate roughly to the following: give sacrificially, be sympathetic, and practice self-control. These are fragments shored against ruins. Eliot’s certainly, and mine too. Most of writing for me has been building fragments to shore against my ruins. It is a visceral, cathartic, moving act. It is also lonely, isolating, and sometimes deeply unfulfilling. It is ultimately, just for me, but in that way, it is also for you. Most of my tattoos are this way, little pieces of text artfully placed on my body to fight against my worst thoughts and impulses; reminders from the edges I’ve teetered on; love letters from other versions of myself; all true, all reliably helpful messages.
I’m grateful to know the world as synchronous and cyclic. I know when I send these words out, they go to different places, and in time, they return to me, in different lessons, different images. A writing teacher told me once that I have a tendency to overwrite “the point,” I agree and yet, I don’t know if I’ll stop doing that. The point has so many facets, so many angles for analysis; they may all be necessary for sacrifice and comprehension. This for me feels like giving to the altar of writing and in turn relying on the altar of writing to return its rewards. I am setting my sights on abundance.
From Anais Duplan:
”Are you tired. Yes, Everyday. You can write and
write and still you are indefatigable. Deep well of a
woman, step on my throat and tell me right, straight
and true.”
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