I think it can be said that writers are a generally strange breed. We do what we do not simply because we find it fun or interesting, but because we must – we must write, must document, must express, somehow. And to be honest, it is not always fun, maybe not even always interesting. But it is necessary. This is why I write. Ernest Hemingway once said, “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” Writing can be harsh, painful. When we cut our open our veins, words flow because we cannot let them out through ordinary means. The tongue is not always an adequate vehicle for what we have to convey, so we find another way.
I use the word “we” because writing has for so long struck me as the most intensely true paradox I have ever known – something that is so incredibly personal, like poetry (or painting, or photography, or any other form of art, really) is almost unfailingly universal. Those who write are often solitary creatures, but I think this is only for want of a truly meaningful connection. This connection is one that lives beneath the surface; it is one that, in order to grasp it, we must reach in not just with the tips of our fingers but with our whole arm. This is uncomfortable, to be sure: I often stop while in the middle of writing a piece, afraid of the self-deprecating realizations it will bring. But at some point, I always continue. I must, because these are the truest truths I know and these things are important. I had a conversation with someone recently. He said I think I view things too abstractly sometimes, I wish I viewed the world in a simpler, more narrow way, it would make life much easier. He said there are always distractions, though, like school and work, so we don’t always have to be preoccupied and distressed with a seemingly futile search for meaning. To an extent, I see his point. But I don’t think he is being entirely truthful with himself (especially considering that he, too, writes). Nothing can distract us permanently. At some point, the thing that is lingering in the back of our minds, whatever that may be, will make its way forward. And when it does, we write about it.
I often struggle with defining things. I evade certainty, dodge conviction, and greet indecision like an old friend. I am an idealist, but an exhausted one, and keeping cynicism at bay is a constantly-waged war. Politics make me sad. Watching the news makes me sad. But I refuse to ignore these things, because that, too, would not be truthful. These things are harsh, and sometimes bring me to flirt with nihilism, but it never sticks. I have to believe in something. Most often, that thing is poetry.
