
In almost all situations, I tend to state: "There's a metaphor here somewhere."
416 posts
Let Me Write
let me write
In her book The Shock of Arrival: Reflections on Postcolonial Experience, Meena Alexander writes: "...attempts to gain access to an intimate language that can also work in the public sphere--essential for an imaginative writer--can turn harsh, even bruising. The truths of self, far from being sanctioned by tradition, ratified by a body of canonical knowledge, seem mere eruptions, one-shot affairs, nervous outbursts of desire." Writing seems to me now, a similar experience. In each piece of writing, there may be an initial satisfaction in its appearance, but later it seems only a snapshot of how I felt then--almost a lie to myself. Who knows how or when a person will change? It is a personal dilemma when I write, especially if it is in a journal.
Many great writers say that the key to writing well and avoiding writer's block is writing often; many also keep journals almost religiously or at least set aside an assigned place and time to write, when they should not be disturbed. But how often do they flip back at their older works and realize that something is no longer true? Or perhaps, if they had published it, and someone close to them had read it, there would have been an emotional rift between author and said person?
And there is the fear that the public would not even accept the work at all. Shouldn't it be a masterpiece, beautiful, poignant, like that novel that moved us so much just recently, with its eloquent but honest words, wrapping themselves around the mind and breathing out a deep sigh as the last page was turned? So many want to read only things of great quality, captivating language that makes us admire the very art of writing itself. Don't authors fear clichés, or the hate of an audience that cannot understand what the author meant to convey, or perhaps the subtle mistake that was overlooked during edits?
What are honesty and truth, but the deep secrets and feelings within us that have the power to lay bare our own mistakes, to bring grins of recognition and empathy, to tear open the hearts of others who, doubtless, will want to read what we present to the public? And yet, what is writing a work of literature, but capturing a moment or era in time, before and after a change occurs to the character we follow?
But let me not be held back by fear, or at least be driven forward by the fear of never being able to write something decent again. Let me write with naked honesty, raw emotion, but also with elegant prose, refined poetry nested within carefully chosen adjectives--something candid but polished. Let me write for an Audience of One--the way a true author writes.
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