I might have gotten carried away in a ācoldā letter to a recruiter today. But it is a subject Iām passionate about. It didnāt amount to much, but it was something I felt I needed to write, not because of a spiritual prompting or external pressure, but because I had words inside me that I needed to say.
Thatās the way true writing is for me. It burns and churns inside me, bubbling until it boils over, spilling across the screen in front of me.
Itās something I must discover, something I need to be there for, be present for, be accountable to. If my fingers are on the keyboard or my voice is joining in with friends, I can find it more easily, locate those lilting, still gasps of inspiration hidden in between the gaps in our conversations.
Writing, then, becomes a conversation with myself, similar to the discussions and debates I have with old roommates. Itās a back-and-forth, a collision of ideas on a 2-D plane, a gushing, crashing crush of insight and rapport. Itās an exchange with myself ā I give you words and a willingness to listen, you give me glimpses in a mirror and reflections on deeper topics, and we both come out better for it.
Writing is how I learn, how I create, how I build my way into the world around me, by mashing new ideas against old ones like clay on a school desk. The moldable against the immovable, the mess against the clean. My thoughts need to be kneaded and pummeled and flattened and folded until they become soft enough to work with, pliable enough to build something strong.
I know I shouldnāt write in such ephemeral, abstract terms, that I shouldnāt use āthingā or āgetā so much. Readers canāt connect with abstract concepts and null-value words, not like they can with good, concrete examples. Solid metaphors. Nuance-filled parables and fables and fact-based fictions. That is what Iāve been told, what Iāve had taught to me. Taught at me.
But Iām not writing for them, not when I get like this. Not once the words start flowing and growing on their own. Iām not writing to be read (as ironic as that sounds). No, Iām writing for me, writing to clear my head, to heal my heart, to mend my mind, to fix some fault or fracture Iām still figuring out how to face.
I write for the very same reasons I blow my nose: I donāt do it to help others hear my voice more clearly; I do it because something inside me needs out. Itās visceral and physical and instinctual. If I donāt do it often, things can get messy and raw. If something irritates me, aggravates my sinuses or my morals or my subconscious convictions, I immediately feel a near-uncontrollable need to expel it from me, to get it in front of me, to examine it on paper. Itās how my body flushes out foreign objects and ideas.
And, much like this post, when what comes out slaps noisily and explosively onto the page in front of me, running on a little as it slides from one line into the next, I feel better. Iām usually a bit sore, too, but thatās understandable if youāve ever seen (or heard) me sneeze.
But, like I said, I canāt really help myself when it gets to that point. Sometimes Iāve just got to let it out.
