Well here’s a strange thing… I’d like to take a minute to write about writing.
It’s like talking, eating, sleeping, almost everyone can write, if they’ve been taught. Since almost anyone can write anything, then what makes you so special? You is actually me, I mean me.
My spirit speaks to me in whispers and in fleeting visions, packaged into a fictional wonderland of vibrant characters and stories. It is showing me, ME, my past and who I am without the burden of facing it as myself. My characters are beautifully flawed, ill informed, prone to mistakes, bad choices and some downright very bad choices that are willfully chosen. I am not ashamed of them, nor do I judge them. They are always forgiven with love, compassion and understanding…
But not me. If I ventured into the truth behind these fictional writings and saw myself there, naked and exposed, I would judge this stripped down version of myself so harshly, with such animosity, even while she was down, cowering, ashamed. My wrath could not come swift enough. My hate could be assuaged. Such is the inner monologue I have for this feeble minded ‘Jessica’ so they call her.
Still, she writes. She contributes in her own way to the tradition and history that is inherent in literature and written word. She speaks to those before her, she draws life from their words, inspiration, merit and awe. That is a good thing she does. She also does not judge others, but meets them with the same acceptance and kindness she does with her characters. Forgiving, understanding, compassionate.
What is the point of it all? To write and to continue writing even without a reader. Who is reading this anyway? Who has read her books? Not many. She claims that if even one person read something of hers and was inspired, or ‘Rekindled’ as she calls it, when our inner light and spirit is ignited to purpose and love. If one person is Rekindled by her words, this great undertaking is justified. Or is it?
Is it wasted on the blind? Am I blind just because I don’t see it?
And I claimed this entry was about WRITING, alas, it is about the writer, but isn’t all WRITING about the one that pushes the pen across page, inking lines, curves, dots and punctuations? Isn’t this just another way to pour out our hearts in a safe medium, to be praised as art as any painter who paints, or singer who sings. WRI-TING and WRI-TOR are one in the same, as the portrait artist draws themselves in every face they render.
This gift is so often a curse, to be gifted with this urge to write and yet be limited by the possibility that no one will ever read it. Does it matter if words spoken are not heard, or the damned tree in the forest that falls without a witness? Are words unread wasted? Are thoughts unshared just quiet musings of the insane? For how many people have spoken their inner truths and been committed? Don’t answer that!
WRI-TING was the topic, but to bear witness to these characters and their antics inside of ones own mind may be the very definition of insane! I can’t get a glass of water, take a nap, or walk to the mailbox without someone in my head DOING something to get my attention. All of Jessica’s life reminds me of them. All of her experiences influence them. She is part of them and them part of she, and she has claimed to even MISS them, as if they could be missed.
You know the poem by Jorge Luis Borges called Borges and I. Stop reading this and read that. It is exactly how I feel about Jessica. She is one small part of the enormity of who I am and what I represent in the infinity of the universe. One small part. And she calls herself a WRI-TOR. The use of the ‘O’ is deliberate, like a conductor who conducts. I propose we change the spelling of WRITER to WRI-TOR so we can get on with other unimportant things.
She writes and gives us life.