“Writers are an envious bunch.” -Louis, Stuck in Love
I’ve spent countless hours sitting in the doorway to my garden; feet propped up, staring at the unremarkable side of my kitchen cupboards. There’s a black smudge running the span of it, and I can’t seem to remove it no matter what cleaning product I use.
I stare at that smudge, and the dead autumn leaves that lay just outside the doorway. I stare at the inchworm inching his way by, in search of some place to be. I think about my life and the lives of others out in the world – the damage and the joys that swirl around through billions of moments. Words come to me and then float away again as I sit frozen, knowing that if I would just write them down and be done with it, I would feel a little better. I would feel a sense of release.
The book and movies I take in lately always seem to entail a story about a writer. It’s like the universe keeps pulling me back into just writing down the words of my own life, even if no one gives a shit. One film’s character claimed writing to be a sort of therapy. It’s true. Writing is a way of combing through the nonsensical strings of words that are haphazardly and often cruelly tossed around by the raging emotion in our minds. They float around in a sea of nonsense, and it’s only when we speak them coherently, or write them down, that we feel truly heard or understood. Feeling heard is maybe one of the most important things I can think of; to be redeemed by relaying our experience to another human being. To feel that someone, somewhere, is going to making meaning of what we’re communicating.
An old love of mine once read some stuff I’d written. I asked what he thought as he retrieved two beers from his fridge:
“I honestly thought you had more ingenuity than that.”
It didn’t crush me in that moment, but it served to further relinquish me from my own desire to express. I’m sensitive enough to hold his esteem between me and my creative pursuit of doing something as simple as arranging words on a page.
I surely have a lot to say, although these days I just don’t have the heart to actually relay it to any wider world. I envy those people that have the guts. I also love them for writing and allowing me to read about what’s going on in their lives.
To all those artists out there; to all those aspiring and realized writers – say what you have to say, no matter how boring or mundane, and let the opinions of others be damned. One way or another, you’re going to have to get it out. And one way or another, someone somewhere is bound to run with it.