On being gratuitous

"Since I am neither a camera eye nor much given to writing pieces that do not interest me, whatever I do reflects, sometimes gratuitously, how I feel."
-- Joan Didion, Preface, "Slouching Towards Bethlehem"

I have felt for a long time now an inability to conjure prose, to piece it together in a way sufficient for others to lay eyes on. And yet there is the urge to write. This feeling that not to do so is somehow a corruption. Some knowledge deep in my belly that this is one of those things I am supposed to do, never mind the momentary lapses in personality, in confidence, in a willingness to face life. I love words. I love the way they make me feel when they rub up against each other just so. I have a desire to play back with them, to put them into juxtapositions from which, by some magic, a song may rise. I search for beauty in books, in journals and other clippings. And when these things are beautiful, I want to eat them, to squeeze out their pulpy juices, to feast upon them course by delicious course. I know the mechanics of writing, the right and the wrong, but I have never felt deserving enough of the words. A major handicap has been the firm belief that no matter what I say, no one will want to hear it. The things that interest me, no one will care to know. The world as seen through these eyes -- why? The world has been there, done that. But then I read that quote up there by Joan Didion, and I think, Yes. All right. That’s the attitude. I’m no Joan Didion, but I can spin a line or two. And so what if there’s a good deal of me in there. Maybe all that me won’t be such a bad thing. I have ideas, so many ideas, every day, walking to work, waiting for the subway, riding the subway, staring into my drink, waiting, hours, to fall asleep. And yet most of this has not led anywhere. Yet. I am hoping that this school business can help me finally escape the waiting room into which I have sequestered myself. For so long, I have felt inadequate to the task. But there comes a point when such feelings must be put away, tucked in beneath sheets and sweaters and closed into a dark box. Click of the lock. I see it now, within reach: the courage to toss the key.

Comments

[maggie]

I have the sense that I feel some of the same things throughout my day, and where one discovers shared experiences, she finds interested readers. so write on.

p.s. I've been rather taken with having "sense"s since reading any of a number of current bills introduced in the house. forgive me.