I thought about writing today.
The result was immediate indigestion and malingering nausea. No, this was no ambitious thought or mind toward my more lofty of projects-the endless worlds and journal after journal of unpublished world notes and character drabbles-nor was it guilt felt in the direction of my many, many unanswered tags. What crossed my mind during the subsequent bathroom run and gargle was nothing to do with fiction and everything to do with essay-craft.
The art of the essay is one typically discovered in the academic fields of mainstream study. The very many liberal arts departments of the world house schools of essayists, albeit those in their undergraduate infancy, who discuss, through writ, the beleaguered economics of Mary Queen of Scots, the nature of the human soul as presented by Aristotle, and the finer foibles of ever-stagnating bipartisan American politics. There are rules governing the format and allowable content of an essay, typically defined and then redefined by professors possessing of their own unique preferences in font-face and margin depth. Single or double spaced, each essay begins with an introduction, ends in a conclusion, and consists of a multi-part body covered in PEE. (Point. Example. Explanation.) This is the sort of essay I grade daily, though is not the type of essay I wish to be writing.
In truth, calling what I intend ‘essaying’ is perhaps a misnomer. Calling my intention ‘article-writing’ or ‘journalling’ would be more honest, but I have lost some measure of faith in both of those mediums. Article writing denotes a purpose, which I certainly do not have, and journalling has been redefined as writing pithy 150 character statements on Twitter about what colour underwear you’re wearing today, and what day of the week you intend to change said pair. Anything longer is ignored, pushed to the wayside, and forgotten in a mess of drivel. This is where I would like to say something about lacking the dedicated readership to provide the gratification and desired discussion inherent to writing a dedicated ‘journal article,’ but instead I’ll point out that the worst way to endear yourself to a readership is by calling their community contributions ‘drivel.’ You also don’t engender yourself by remarking, after, that you don’t put much faith in them ever fully grasping the self-denigrated humour built in to such an admission. Saying any of those things out loud are grounds for a re-evaluation of purpose, which I am currently experiencing…
So what do I want to talk about? I want to talk about three weeks spent wanting ‘more’ from my overall internet experience. I want to mention that it is dishonest of me to say that I have been too busy to attend to online obligations because that is only half the truth. The whole truth is that I have wasted what little time off I have seeking to discover something of greater value than I’ve been able to find online in a long time, and that the reason for this inability is not because the contributions of other people online are lacking, but rather that my own contributions online have been lacking. Lacklustre, to be precise. I have created nothing of worth on the internet for years. I have not participated in any grand scheme of writing, have not coded any website, have not created any community with which to draw together like minded people of good fiction and interest. Instead, I have been drifting, and drifting has made me discontent. Discontent, in turn, has made me slow, irresponsible, and unhappy.
I want to make something. I’m afraid of making anything. I’m afraid that anything I make will reflect on me and show the hidden pathways I keep hidden for a reason. I’m afraid to admit that I want to live, and that since I can not live, I want to write. I’m afraid of realising that I am not writing because writing will remind me of everything I could be doing. Yet, in the end, if I am honest with myself, I will remember that that was precisely the reason I started writing in the first place.
You write what you know. You detail it until the fantasy is so riddled with truths that it becomes real. Most people in my position, I know, have said that they know nothing enough to write about in so vivid a manner, but they are wrong. We-I-know far too much about solitude, far too much about longing, and far too much about being the Other. We’re just too afraid of the truth to watch it escape from our pens, to see it stain the page with so much black and white and red.
Red like rain giving the page life.
When the rain would not fall, the village brought a bull to be slaughtered by the altar. When the herd was lean, the village took bushels of wheat to be burned as offering. We were always short of milk and bread, always short of beer and meat, but we all praised the gods for their clemency as we thinned and starved. Such was tradition, and I thought nothing of it. As I grew to be surrounded by the bones of my family, however, it made me understand that not all traditions were meant to be followed.
And that is why I had to die; it was not an idea that could be allowed to live.
The art of the essay is one typically discovered in the academic fields of mainstream study. The very many liberal arts departments of the world house schools of essayists, albeit those in their undergraduate infancy, who discuss, through writ, the beleaguered economics of Mary Queen of Scots, the nature of the human soul as presented by Aristotle, and the finer foibles of ever-stagnating bipartisan American politics. There are rules governing the format and allowable content of an essay, typically defined and then redefined by professors possessing of their own unique preferences in font-face and margin depth. Single or double spaced, each essay begins with an introduction, ends in a conclusion, and consists of a multi-part body covered in PEE. (Point. Example. Explanation.) This is the sort of essay I grade daily, though is not the type of essay I wish to be writing.
In truth, calling what I intend ‘essaying’ is perhaps a misnomer. Calling my intention ‘article-writing’ or ‘journalling’ would be more honest, but I have lost some measure of faith in both of those mediums. Article writing denotes a purpose, which I certainly do not have, and journalling has been redefined as writing pithy 150 character statements on Twitter about what colour underwear you’re wearing today, and what day of the week you intend to change said pair. Anything longer is ignored, pushed to the wayside, and forgotten in a mess of drivel. This is where I would like to say something about lacking the dedicated readership to provide the gratification and desired discussion inherent to writing a dedicated ‘journal article,’ but instead I’ll point out that the worst way to endear yourself to a readership is by calling their community contributions ‘drivel.’ You also don’t engender yourself by remarking, after, that you don’t put much faith in them ever fully grasping the self-denigrated humour built in to such an admission. Saying any of those things out loud are grounds for a re-evaluation of purpose, which I am currently experiencing…
So what do I want to talk about? I want to talk about three weeks spent wanting ‘more’ from my overall internet experience. I want to mention that it is dishonest of me to say that I have been too busy to attend to online obligations because that is only half the truth. The whole truth is that I have wasted what little time off I have seeking to discover something of greater value than I’ve been able to find online in a long time, and that the reason for this inability is not because the contributions of other people online are lacking, but rather that my own contributions online have been lacking. Lacklustre, to be precise. I have created nothing of worth on the internet for years. I have not participated in any grand scheme of writing, have not coded any website, have not created any community with which to draw together like minded people of good fiction and interest. Instead, I have been drifting, and drifting has made me discontent. Discontent, in turn, has made me slow, irresponsible, and unhappy.
I want to make something. I’m afraid of making anything. I’m afraid that anything I make will reflect on me and show the hidden pathways I keep hidden for a reason. I’m afraid to admit that I want to live, and that since I can not live, I want to write. I’m afraid of realising that I am not writing because writing will remind me of everything I could be doing. Yet, in the end, if I am honest with myself, I will remember that that was precisely the reason I started writing in the first place.
You write what you know. You detail it until the fantasy is so riddled with truths that it becomes real. Most people in my position, I know, have said that they know nothing enough to write about in so vivid a manner, but they are wrong. We-I-know far too much about solitude, far too much about longing, and far too much about being the Other. We’re just too afraid of the truth to watch it escape from our pens, to see it stain the page with so much black and white and red.
Red like rain giving the page life.
When the rain would not fall, the village brought a bull to be slaughtered by the altar. When the herd was lean, the village took bushels of wheat to be burned as offering. We were always short of milk and bread, always short of beer and meat, but we all praised the gods for their clemency as we thinned and starved. Such was tradition, and I thought nothing of it. As I grew to be surrounded by the bones of my family, however, it made me understand that not all traditions were meant to be followed.
And that is why I had to die; it was not an idea that could be allowed to live.