My Thoughts on Writing (So Far, That Is)

Image from http://celebriot.com/william-styron-quotes/quote-9357

Listless, fickle, uncertain: I have often described myself this way. As I grew up, each year would stretch out before me, the bearer of new pursuits. But I would shudder after realizing once again that this or that preoccupation wasn’t my calling, for it didn’t end with a pounding in my head or the inexplicable need to go further. Thus I would leave without giving the matter too much thought.

Writing was different. I tried to leave it behind; I couldn’t.

In the middle of walking away towards something else, I’d become enamored with blank pages in front of me and the tremendous way they seduced me into telling my secrets, learning once again what I knew, and searching earnestly for what I had yet to learn.

Even still, there are occasional (perhaps more frequent than I care to admit) stretches of time when I think about leaving, about putting down the pen. But these hardly last. I feel their bitterness and recognize their temporal nature before allowing them to deceive me too significantly. These weeks are merely lapses, for I soon remember that while great loves may be veiled from us for a period of time, they are rarely, if ever, diminished.

Indeed, I have wondered before whether "the writer" is writing's star-crossed lover, for writing is and perhaps alway will be a terrible and unforgiving undertaking for them. In the end, though, it will also be incessantly their own. Thus the writer may be afflicted and morose at times; that can be granted. But they are also the happiest person to walk the earth. When words come well, bliss is found, and the frustrations inevitably subside as they are melded into the halfway-remembered, rose-tinged history of the archetypal romanticized process.

And so I, and many others I am certain, find a pen once more in spite of all else and succumb to the lure of words.

On Passion

From http://inspirably.com/quotes/by-jazley-faith/lack-of-passion-is-fatal

I used to dream of greatness, and among my several longings was the wish for my words to be remembered.

Then, as I began to write more regularly and came to live for the thrill words fed me, I came to understand that greatness did not satisfy the heart of what I was after, for greatness may not last, and it is up to others to attribute any confused measure of "the esteemed" to our work. Even more, I resolved that the shifting tides of the world's fads and now-and-then-fascinations could not truly fulfill what I knew I craved, for it was not the recognition that I truly hoped, but the fervor of the written.

Yes, it was passion, immense passion that cannot be tempered. Passion that comes from our soul and is unconcerned with the judgment of others. Passion that exists not so others can analyze or scrutinize it, but rather because it demands to exist. It exists naturally. Indeed, the writer often does not choose to articulate; they are instead drawn to do so by a strange and familiar compulsion with which they live.

Finally, I realized, “Ah, this is it. All this time, passion is what I truly have sought.” And when I realized this, the greatness for which I used to long, in all its temporality and feigned grandiosity, subsided at once.

For I finally knew there are greater things of which to dream.

Writing: The Great Love and Lie

Image from http://dianaludwig.com/illus/wnwg9.html

Few things in this world frighten me so immensely as the reality of how it is all too easy to lie to ourselves, and to believe our lies so adamantly. Even when it comes to our greatest desires for our lives, we often fail to recognize the truth, even when it is one of the most important recognitions we could possibly make.

These days, I wake up each morning with a new lie weighing heavily on my mind. They’re uncovered in my dreams, in sleeplessness, in tears, in sighs of relief, and in the renewed promise of the early morning hours.

One of the biggest lies I have told myself is that I can be a truly fulfilled and happy person without writing as the central focus of my life. But as tears streamed down my face first in bed and then in such mundane places as the aisles of the grocery store, the palpability of my great lie became evident. Writing was always, has always been, a part of my very being. It compels me to live a more honest and meaningful existence. It makes sense when nothing else does. It is my great solace, and my great ardor.

But you can only kid yourself about such things as this for so long before you remember what is true. It isn’t anyone who’s heart rate speeds up after reading a good sentence, or who wakes each day to look at the Ernest Hemingway quote pasted up on the wall:

Image from http://www.qualitylogoproducts.com/blog/hemingway-quotes-inspire-blogging-writing/

This is, and I believe always will be, true for me. I will never be anything quite as much as I am a writer. And so long as a life of artificial and half-hearted pursuits is not the sort which I long to live, I have found that I must learn to do those things that call out to me (and still whisper to me when I've strayed). Indeed, my only option, it seems, is to hold desperately onto those enduring passions that are so sweetly rare, because when we are lucky enough to find something that means the world to us, that is an occasion that perhaps most begs us to quit our lies and surrender to self-confessed truths.

It is infrequently that I feel I am in such a position to offer advice. However, let this post convey one thing to all readers: If there is something that you love like nothing else in the world, something that keeps you up at night, something that seems like the most genuine pursuit you could possibly undertake, then you must go after it if you can. Not all are so lucky to have the opportunity to pursue the things they love, but if you are, do so humbly and graciously, and always feel a resounding love for that truth you tell to yourself and to the world.