The Writers Singularity
The hardest thing about writing, for me at least, is speaking truthfully and plainly. I lack the intelligence and skill that master artists like Hemingway, or Faulkner, or Steinbeck process. With the stroke of their pen they weave fantastic narratives that draw us in as a moth to flame. Sophisticated soliloquy’s, detailed descriptions with charismatic characters that both flow with flawed foibles and endearing environs. And somehow, in the middle of this… divine orchestration, this inspired etude, we the reader are still dumbstruck by the raw realness… the naked humanity that we all recognize as our own. Whether we toil against the endless, timeless march of nature like that old man and the sea, or search for the light of humanity somewhere east of Eden, these works reach us.
No, I’m not an artist. At least not a good one. The only tool I have in my deflated tool bag is emotion. Don’t mistake this observation for a complaint. I treasure what I do have. Some weird, awful, beautiful way of taking hold of my life and circumstances and gazing at them as through a kaleidoscope. Allowing my eye to capture the patterns and colors. To treasure them. To laugh, weep, scream, wail, just to remove restraint and let the water flow where it will. And then, eventually, I process and put into words what I experienced. And there’s the rub.
So you decide, as I, to write true and plain. And so you determine to speak what you feel. But it’s like an unripe fruit. The peel is stuck too tightly to the pulp. So you force the issue, tearing at the skin with tooth and knife. And finally when you’ve managed to bare its flesh you bite down with anticipation of the sweet juice. But it wasn’t ready for this and the seeds and pulp are bitter. You want to spit it out. Not just the flesh but the taste. But it’s too late. You asked for this and now it’s yours. What’s spoken can’t be easily unspoken. Yes you could abandon it like an unwanted child. “What? Who’s babe is this? Surely not mine!” As you walk away. It is ugly after all and looks nothing like what you think it ought. It’s not difficult to deny the progeny. No one would believe it was yours anyway. This ugly, sour page of…. What is it anyway? Or you could own it. Wrestle with it. Figure it out. Figure each other out. I mean, you did pull back the covers. You did turn on the light. You can’t be upset because what you thought you’d say is not at all what you said. So which is it? Which is true?
I cannot tell you that I’ve shared everything I’ve written. Even if it be written well. I cannot tell you I’ve been proud of everything I have written. Even if it be true. What I can tell you, though, is that everything I write is true. To me. At a given moment. Faithful to fancy, feeling, or veritas (look, I couldn’t think of any English, French, German, or Spanish word that approached the level of alliteration I was going for). So for me at least, that’s the singularity. The point where everything simply is, and I have to make sense of it. Pull out the pieces. Pray they are not too ugly. And then reconcile them to myself.
