The act of writing

Writing. I love it. I am scared of it. I look forward to it. I postpone it.

It is not writing about the world out there, fiction, a salad of opinions assembled over a few thousand words or the ghost writing that I sometimes consent to. It is more the writing about my world that is inviting, exciting and daunting.

I stare blankly for a length of time for that drop of ink to turn into words or the keystrokes to land evenly, effortlessly, uninterrupted by the loss of ideas or words. I imagine that it is a dart of inspiration that shapes what is unformed or amorphous into concrete output – unpredictable, untimely and of no known source. Upon deciding to write. I wait and wonder – will it whisper its essence, will it be a starter phrase, will it be a whole text that scrolls in front of my eyes, will it be a fleeting thought…?

Most times, I don’t have the words for what I wish to communicate. I restlessly type and delete, or sometimes alternate between writing by hand and using the computer, hoping to find unimpeded flow. There are times I give up. On those occasions, I recall writers whose books I have loved and marvelled at. I envy their craft and the ability to paint and animate a universe with just words and rue the fact that I can’t seem to get past just one page or one piece.

It has been suggested more than once that I attend writing courses offered by contemporary masters of narratives. It is all there online, people add helpfully. You have talent, it will be really good for you, they say; something that I know comes from their faith in me and in response to my own perseverance with writing. However, these suggestions register with me as an oblique, unfavourable judgment on my efforts, my craft. I have held on to an unexamined notion that either you have it (talent) or you don’t. All those writers – my heroes – didn’t attend writing classes, did they? I have come upon a sad realization that I am resistant to studying and learning, smug in my fantasy of talent, unwilling to give up, and mostly critical of the lack of greater output.

What’s fear got to do with it?

What I like about the act of writing is that there is nothing between the machine and me. All that matters really is my intent, integrity and investment of energy. However, I lose my way sometimes seduced by the words that together seem attractive but are not true. Other times, I am gripped by fear – the fear to name things and to give up the faux fog in the mind that I take refuge in when afraid to confront my inner realities – harsh judgments, violence, the unarticulated attractions and revulsions, the ignorance and the arrogance, the pomposity and pettiness, the yearning and the sharp edges… I fear that in acknowledging these through writing, I would give license to them, as if they were genies out of the tight confines of my chest. I fear that the better angels of my being will in some way be sullied, diminished and be open to doubt – as if the being were a finite thing, existing in categories of the pure and the polluting, easily contaminated if not tightly held and separated.

So you see, I am not that afraid of what opinions and judgments others who might read my writing form of me. I write first and foremost for myself. I am the unsparing judge. Or so I believe. I must be satisfied that my writing is faithful to my intent, the content in terms of creative license is within bounds, and that there is no discernible self-deception, no facile justifications and cop-outs.

Words are all I have

Writing is a significant means to connect with myself, to express myself. Others have art, music, dance. But words have limitations in accessing and expressing the remote recesses of the heart and experience – aspects that art, music and dance can intuitively tap into and that flow without mediation by thought and words and needing little or no explanation to connect. Words are all I have. And a limited set too. I comfort myself from time to time by declaring that my writing will not be interrupted by a glance at the thesaurus, something I see in what many others publish. 

So yes, writing has been the gateway to my mind and moods and the unceasing inner drama – a tool to unearth, investigate, decipher, name and describe them. It has been the route to insight and a means to understand myself and my world a little better. It has been the closest to a meditative experience that I know.

To share or not to share

I wondered why people share what they write (I am not talking about the serious, professional authors and scribes) – people like you and me – or why they might withhold. I did a quick mental survey.

A look around

I reckon people share for a variety of reasons: to shape thought and perspectives, to feel better understood, to invite others into one’s life with its myriad hues, and in many instances also to seed and feed a certain image with subtle self-congratulation thrown in. It is quite common for professionals today to cultivate the image of a ‘thought leader’, for instance, by sharing short pieces – often a mix of the pedestrian, common sense, borrowed wisdom from a recently released book or an obscure author, or some home-cooked acronym for a ‘new’ way, a ‘new’ deal – that are quickly lapped up by adoring colleagues and friends and followed by protestations of deep humility (feeling ‘humbled’; ah, that damn expression) from the author.

I discovered there are many reasons for why people who write hesitate to share their work: a) their outputs don’t meet their own high standards, and, in some instances, all effort is beaten down by severe judgment and shifting higher and higher standards, b) they are afraid to stake a position and fear push-back, criticism and comparison, c) apprehensions that their carefully constructed image should not be tampered with or held up to scrutiny, d) doubts about whether people would be interested at all in what is being said through writing. This, I suspect, is in many instances rooted in a more fundamental existential question about oneself – do I matter? What is the point of it all? e) the writing is deeply personal, the stories in them held ‘secret’ and zealously guarded; they reveal aspects of a vulnerable, withheld self, sought to be protected from others’ callous, irresponsible and insensitive handling, f) writing that may be honest but carries the potential to be hurtful, misunderstood and a threat to one or more relationships.

Where am I with sharing?

I ask myself, what of my writing do I share? Why do I share at all?

I began by assuming that I share what I write unhesitatingly. Rather quickly I realised that wasn’t the case.

The triggers to write are many: to explore, to express, sometimes to sharpen a point of view, and once in a while, to scream or cry for attention. It is another matter that I can neither scream nor cry blatantly, but people mostly get it and I soak up all their deep understanding and empathy greedily, feeling nourished and affirmed.

Why do I share? It depends on the subject and content. a) I share because I believe I have a gift (I have never owned this gracefully) – to articulate something where others feel similarly as me or who share a similar perspective but find the words to express eluding them, b) I share to get something out of my system, let it loose in the world out there and then watch where it lands and how it touches or triggers people, c) I share sometimes because I believe that while our particular contexts may be different, our struggles are similar and the resonance that sharing creates is energising, d) I share writing that reinforces a self-portrayal – as self-effacing and self-deprecating, deeply caring but unsentimental, understated and thoughtful, critical but empathetic, and concerned about issues that go beyond me and mine.

Before and after sharing

I tread cautiously en route to the final act of sharing. First, I run it past the in-house grammar police, my daughter. She can never do a quick read-through and is easily distracted by a superfluous comma, or an inappropriately placed semi-colon, hyphen or apostrophe. Then I share it with my sister and maybe a couple of friends. What follows is a tense wait. Invariably some rewrite will follow after feedback. At this stage my impatience mounts. I have to get this over with and not ever go back to it. It is finally out – this 750 or 1000 words! (This is a point when you suppress an amused smile or guffaw).

I am sensitive to feedback. I don’t do well where my intent is questioned, or I feel misunderstood. I am neither scholar nor expert. Much of what I write is not ‘research-based’ and relies more on what I loosely refer to as my subjective truths. Engaging with others’ attempts to invalidate these are hard to deal with. 

What I hesitate to share are unchecked outbursts that have the potential to do more harm and aggravate a situation, a relationship. I hesitate to share something that I apprehend may not go well with those I care about. I haven’t shared with my mother the piece I wrote about the events of the day my father died fearing it would cause her hurt and pain. The truth is, I haven’t checked with her. It may just be my imagination.

Facts are easily verifiable, opinions one can debate, and perspectives one can exchange and discuss. Feelings are something else; to speak of them requires courage and that fails me on occasion. Even where it is just me and the computer, knowing that the mirror tells no lies, the witness in me who chooses to see through the fog is afraid to ‘see’ for fear of what consequences may ensue for the actor, that is me, who embarks on the act of writing.

Image from pixabay.