“Are you hurt,” I asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“Is there something I can do?”
“No,” she said. “Let’s just keep going.”
I nodded, knowing before I had asked there was little I could do except be there.
“Are you hurt,” I asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“Is there something I can do?”
“No,” she said. “Let’s just keep going.”
I nodded, knowing before I had asked there was little I could do except be there.
I’m sitting on my couch with my eyes closed while writing this. Every sentence is being created as it streams through my mind, and I am not going back to correct mistakes. What you see is what you get. First draft. No going back.
Did I double space? I think so.
This is the most discouraging period of my writing career. I feel weak, unsure, diminutive and somewhat blind to whatever talent I posess (dammit I can feel a spelling error). This is a painful period of my life.
I create in hopes people will look and say, “I wish to take that home with me.” Instead, people look and say, “That’s wonderful.” Then they continue to whatever’s next. How does someone recover from this?
Now I’m overwhelmed with the information thrown at me right now. As per the last sentence, I obviously like beginning and ending the same sentence with “now.” Usually I scold myself for such a mistake. Here I cannot correct it.
What I really want to say I do not know how. Or I am not letting me say what I should. I’m censoring my fingers. Anger does this. I’m fighting a gate. The gate does not wish to open, and I do not have the strength to break it.
If nothing comes of this post… No, if nothing other than I have learned I am censoring my emotions comes of this post, I will feel indifferent.
Eyes open.
Writing is tough work.
Writing for no one seems pointless. And when I do write for me, I’m not satisfied. I squirm at the imperfection and clench my fists. An observer would consider me ready for institutionalization, and I would not debate.
Writing for someone can be as unsatisfying as writing for no one. Most people do not know what they want, and some do not like me making that determination. They usually cripple themselves with expectations no person should embrace. Or they don’t respect the effort required to write well. Sometimes the difference between good writing and great writing goes unnoticed by the unacquainted eye, and that can lead them further into ignorance.
I seal my lips most days. I vomit honesty other days.
Honesty in this realm has two sides, though. The first is of depression and the second is of bliss.
The bliss exists because the aforementioned difficult times exist. The writing process — well, the communication process — has powerful, satisfying moments. It’s all in the navigation. Working through the problems.
One minute I want to place my work beneath the wheels of a moving bus. One minute I want to explode with joy.
Not every job is a pain in the ass. Not every job ends with bliss. There are no guarantees.
Writing is awesome work.
“Please write a two-page essay. Include an introduction, three body paragraphs, and a conclusion. Don’t start sentences with ‘and.’ Don’t start or end with prepositions.” Or, “Please write X number of words.”
“Bullshit,” I whisper to myself, then I ignore the person. AND I move ON.
You know who makes a successful career as a writer using a box format? No one. Or maybe someone who’s mocking it, in which case that’d be comedy, which I’d read — and laugh my ass off.
But these little stupid details get locked in our minds for a long time. We can hang on them decades later, even when we’re just writing for ourselves.
I believe a lot of people hold back because there are “rules of writing,” and then we’re left with potential going nowhere. We’re screwed out of a good story or a real observation or a heartfelt reminder because grammar and the idiot teachers back in the day needed us to fit in their box.
So, if you are a person with thoughts and a desire to communicate something, please do so right now however you need to. Ditch the punctuation and the rules of engagement. Stop thinking, and write something. Get it out of your head. That’s where you need to start.
Naturally you will learn to play and tidy your words. Now is NOT necessarily that time to get caught in the bullshit.
If you need to write some truth, write the damn truth, and that also includes how it looks. Some of us exist who are 100-percent behind you. Because we’ve been there.
Here I am again at a change quickly approaching. I have no idea what’s going to happen next, other than the move. It’s actually happening. For so long I’ve held this place close, and now I must let go because I cannot take it with me. I cannot take any of this place with me. Not my friends. Not my school. Not the racecars. Not the woman with whom I shared so much and who did more good for me than maybe some can understand.
It is the lack of the physical carryover I do not want.
People have said I need to move on, and they have listed the reasons why, and I have not fought them recently. But I will not leave this pace with hate. They cannot know my experiences or my intricate emotions. Those are mine and meant for me.
Sometimes I do wake wishing things turned out differently. Intellectually, it is a waste of time. For my heart, it makes the process longer. But we are people and do not live ideals.
I’m sitting on the deck of my apartment, resting my feet on the wall, looking at a Corvallis sunset. The highest parts of McDonald Forest tear the sky. I think of the time I’ve spent in that place, and the time I’ve spent in the concrete jungle. And I hope I leave it better than when I arrived.
I hope I touched lives, and I hope I am not forgotten immediately. If I am, I guess it will be necessary. But I will leave love here regardless, and know that at least I gave something.
It is not my intention to burden you with unwanted information when I speak. No burden at all. I press you to open your heart and learn to be exactly as you wish you would be, because you can, and it is no other’s duty to act except yours. And if there is pressure that comes with the words, I am sorry your heart does not move freely. Know that it will, and whenever you feel pain or sadness or a desire to stop it, there is someone who’s open heart is turned to yours fueling you without your permission. The warmth you feel is the love I share with you because you must keep going for the world cannot bare another day without your effort.
Do not turn away from that challenge presenting itself in frightening form. It is no monster, and you are never alone. Soon you will open your heart and feel all that’s in you and all that’s in this world, and maybe a selfish person as me will receive a blessing — your heart turning to my own and sharing this love that will soon move on to help another. That is not necessary, though. The only necessity is you touching your own heart so you know it’s real, and then you will be able to open it and offer it to the world.
Then you will find home.
He opened the door for her, and they walked inside. She smiled at the baristas while he said hello, then she pulled a chair and sat down at the table closest to me.
He paid and brought a paper and two coffees to her. She opened the paper and folded it how they liked. He moved another table next to hers, pulled the chair opposite her and brought it around beside her and sat down to face the window towards the grass, road and sun setting behind the houses.
She pulled a pen from his AARP shirt pocket and looked at the crossword. He sat close to her with his arm draped over the top of her chair back and waited to begin.
They said few words other than the one’s they were searching for. They didn’t take unnecessary looks at each other.
A girl with shredded black fishnets and salmon pink shorts and a silver nose piercing walked in with her mother who looked nothing like her daughter. The couple looked at them, did not smile or frown, then they continued with their puzzle.
They completed some lines, then he looked at his watch. She folded the paper and gave it to him. He stood first then helped her from her seat, and they walked away, smiling and waving at the baristas. “We will see you tomorrow,” one said.
It’s okay to admit when you’re broken. And it’s okay to ask for help. And it’s important to heal. What isn’t okay is to sit and postpone change or ponder the pain and wait to be saved, because a broken person affects more than himself, and the longer it goes, the more others get hurt. There’s meaning in recovery, because it’s more than just for you.
All the conditions seem ripe for the conversation ahead to reach a new level of exposure, where I’ll be able to take his words and organize them into important prose later. We know each other, the air is light, and he understands my intention.
When he speaks, my recorder and I listen. Almost immediately my heart sinks, to my surprise. His words are great and empty at the same time. The trust I thought was there was an illusion. Or perhaps the problem is my questioning. Interviews often go awry because of poor questioning or improper timing, so I adjust. It’s my job to adjust.
The words are as empty as before. I thought there was a story, and yet I haven’t felt its arrival.
It’s a troubling and familiar situation for nonfiction writers. We sense a story, but for us to write it, we must rely on others’ trust. It’s not always a matter of asking the right questions. And this is part of the game we play.
Some writers I’m sure will argue that it is all about the questioning. Actually, they won’t argue. They will tell me I’m simply wrong, not to mention soft. But whatever.
There are ways around these situations, though. This is real craft. Readers may never be able to appreciate these stories because they cannot unless they are shown each story’s past. Sometimes these stories finish well and receive attention, and sometimes they are unfit for consumption. The art is alive and well.
I will not assume that each art has a crux, but I will stand firm that writing important nonfiction does. We do not survive without the cooperation of others. With that, I will change my mind and stand firm that every art has a crux — the same one.
I do not wish to wave goodbye. But as with beginnings we have endings, and all we can, if given a moment, is to wave. Yet that is not a sorry thing, to wave and say, “Oh, we had a time.”
