Wednesday, April 08, 2009

Everyday Life

Writing, is hard. After six hundred posts, five years of graduate school, diaries of random thoughts, endless papers and not to mention, a mind that I do not remember in its pre-literate stage, I never thought I would say this. Writing, is very hard.

I put out words in the world. I do not know self outside of this writing process. I am my word.

What does this writing mean though? Why all the stuttering and whence all my bravado? Perhaps, for once, I am being forced to follow a word to the ends of the earth. To let it say what it can without stemming it at the cusp of my thought. I am being forced to enunciate.

And this I must do, because I know nothing else.

This is a personal note. One must decide for oneself what bears most merit in life.

The World of the Writer

The writer is a strange figure. Only when eulogized does he or she come into force. In the age of exposure that we live in, writers to many are not just the figures they create, the stories they spawn and the lives they bring into motion. They are also their own metacraft. Consequently, it is almost impossible to know a work without knowing its surrounding commentary. Has it been reviewed? Whose list is it on? Where does the author live? What does s/he do? How old is this mythical writer? What does s/he wear? Can we youtube an interview?

All this noise makes it difficult to "read" just a book. And perhaps equally difficult to write one.

What does it mean to write?

Writing, is also an act of faith. The faith that meaning will come through.

Wait, ignore the bit about faith.

Writing, is an act of letting go. I put a word out into the world. I do not know what it will mean. I meant it to mean something. It became something else. It flew away on wings not of my making. I did not know when I made it that I had given it the possibility of flight. Truth be told, I hadn't. But it flew away anyway.

I am the author. I wrote this piece. I wrote a piece about writing.