Perhaps just to crystallize a moment when I am myself.
I’m not sure what I’m so afraid of that keeps me from writing down the things that come into my head. Maybe it’s the ridiculous number of times I can use the word, “just,” in a sentence. That in itself is sickening to consider. I have deleted that word more times than I have done more interesting things, such as - talking to strangers in bars, loving without reserve, writing love letters to the sun.
That isn’t it, though. It’s something petty. I haven’t gotten over the pretentious bullshit mentality that every word is precious, necessary, irreplaceable. Here’s what I’m afraid of: writing something that isn’t dripping perfection from the first draft. Who the fuck do I think I am, to excrete perfect art with every encounter with a keyboard? I’m not even aiming for art. Art is obtuse. Art impresses people who I hate. I want to impress the people I love. I want them to read what I’ve written and know a piece of me that has never been known before. If I can’t do that in person, if I need to resort to this, then I can’t expect it to come easily.
I don’t mean that I want to share trivia. This is not a survey; I’m not going to list the last five things I ate or the color of window drapes that most exemplifies my inner being. I don’t want to share anecdotes. I’m not very good at that. Inevitably I get to the end of my story and realize that I’m less interested than anybody who’s listening to me tell it. That’s not what I want.
Tonight I was riding in the back of a friend’s car. We were driving through a residential area, attractive enough in its way, with enough trees to consider calling it a canopy road. It was right around dinner time, and I got lost in watching the houses pass by. I always feel a tremendous weight of loneliness when I look in on a house with its windows lit. We passed one with the family just sitting down to dinner, and I had to look away.
That isn’t it, though. It’s something petty. I haven’t gotten over the pretentious bullshit mentality that every word is precious, necessary, irreplaceable. Here’s what I’m afraid of: writing something that isn’t dripping perfection from the first draft. Who the fuck do I think I am, to excrete perfect art with every encounter with a keyboard? I’m not even aiming for art. Art is obtuse. Art impresses people who I hate. I want to impress the people I love. I want them to read what I’ve written and know a piece of me that has never been known before. If I can’t do that in person, if I need to resort to this, then I can’t expect it to come easily.
I don’t mean that I want to share trivia. This is not a survey; I’m not going to list the last five things I ate or the color of window drapes that most exemplifies my inner being. I don’t want to share anecdotes. I’m not very good at that. Inevitably I get to the end of my story and realize that I’m less interested than anybody who’s listening to me tell it. That’s not what I want.
Tonight I was riding in the back of a friend’s car. We were driving through a residential area, attractive enough in its way, with enough trees to consider calling it a canopy road. It was right around dinner time, and I got lost in watching the houses pass by. I always feel a tremendous weight of loneliness when I look in on a house with its windows lit. We passed one with the family just sitting down to dinner, and I had to look away.