So why has it been so long since I’ve written anything? Did college eat away at every spare second of my time until there was barely any time left to breathe, much less sleep and eat? Well, not exactly. School keeps me busy, to be sure (*glances at Honors Program requirements*), but not busy enough to warrant neglecting the poor, dusty Wandering Typewriter for months on end. Why? Well, when it really boils down to it...
Writing is hard.
I don't mean the average, everyday "I have two and a half hours to write a 3,000 word essay and my eyes are bleeding from the amount of repetitive data I've had to scroll through" or the rarer, artsier "I've been creating this world in my head for YEARS and you expect me to explain all of the intricate political games and convoluted murder plots in less than 500 pages?"
No. Writing is harder than that.
Writing is hard because, if you really want to be Good and True and Authentic, you have to be...vulnerable.
There's a whole array of vulnerabilities to explore within the fine arts, actually. One especially common type is the "I spent months lovingly handcrafting this piece of fiction and will Cry if you speak ill of it" sort, and is often quite painful to experience. The variety of vulnerability I'm referring to in this instance, however, is the type that fills your words with meaning and moves your readers to feel. It forces you to scrape away all the fluff and glitter you’ve built around yourself and proclaim, even softly, “this is who I am, and this is what I have made”.
Writing is hard because, if you really want to be Good and True and Authentic, you have to be...vulnerable.
There's a whole array of vulnerabilities to explore within the fine arts, actually. One especially common type is the "I spent months lovingly handcrafting this piece of fiction and will Cry if you speak ill of it" sort, and is often quite painful to experience. The variety of vulnerability I'm referring to in this instance, however, is the type that fills your words with meaning and moves your readers to feel. It forces you to scrape away all the fluff and glitter you’ve built around yourself and proclaim, even softly, “this is who I am, and this is what I have made”.
Now, despite its description, this is not necessarily some earth-shattering variety of self-reflection. For me, part of it was merely accepting the fact that I do indeed write Young Adult fiction, despite years of denial and bitter reflection on such travesties as Twilight. But whatever form it takes, this vulnerability often forces you to drag your Real Self out of whatever hole you’ve hidden it and put it on display for the world to see.
Somewhat unsurprisingly, this variety of vulnerability is not exactly my strong suit. It’s hard enough to see myself for who I truly am. Some days I feel like a scintillating creature of wit, dazzling everyone I touch as I dance through life like a fae. Other days I look in the mirror and think that if I had to give my soul shape, it would be of a creature dripping thoughts like black grease, with a hundred mouths all drooling for attention. Neither pictures are the full truth, of course, but as a writer I deal archetypes like currency and it’s hard not to apply them to myself sometimes. Even once I wrestle down some portion of the truth of who I am, it is Incredibly Difficult for me to give my thoughts form and express to others how I really feel. It’s an oxymoron, don’t you think? A writer who struggles to express her feelings? I’m getting (quite a lot) better at it, but so often it’s easier to keep my emotions sealed up in a metaphorical ziplock bag.
I don’t think I’m quite alone in this. It's easy for all of us, writers or otherwise, to hide behind masks, because how would we survive otherwise? The world is sharp and about as caring as an uneven piece of sidewalk when it comes to ruining your day.
Writing makes it easier to slip behind a mask, sometimes.
Oh yes, we writers talk all the time about being "naked on paper" and other such memorable slogans, but really it's...so...hard. I for one would rather not expose any more skin than I must. It's easier to blame flaws on the awkward academic formula of one's essay, or one's narrative decisions on the personality of a certain character, and settle back comfortably in the knowledge that it isn't really you that's being criticized, it’s just your words that are under fire. Sometimes I find myself using my words as a shield more than a sword.
But after a while your arms get tired from holding that shelter over your head all the time, and so eventually my words started drying up.
Now, while I was busy Not Writing, I kept consistent with another art form: music. As Music is Pretty Much The Only Reason I Can Afford To Go To College (a long and fascinating story full of moments where I could almost feel God’s hand in my life), I really had no other choice. Besides, I’ve been playing violin for over 10 years; it would be very disappointing to stop once I hit college. Anyway, my approach to the instrument has stayed very methodical: almost scientific. If there is a “right” way to perform a piece, I will chose that one and practice it until it is Perfect. Often I found myself jealous of those who could get swept up in the passion of the phrases without worrying about an imperfect bowing or a missed shift. But that started to change this semester, when my music professor handed me a new piece wrapped up in a new challenge: be vulnerable while you play it.
Naturally, I balked at this. As she was explaining this new assignment, I could feel the entirety of my body language change: my shoulders tensed up, I held my chin higher, and brought my violin so far in front of my chest that it formed a sort of barricade--or perhaps a cage. Even though I didn’t entirely know /why/ at the time, in that moment I knew to the very depths of my bones that I Did Not Want To Do That. Still, I agreed to give it a shot, even if perhaps it was only because the said music professor held the power of life and death (i.e. my grade) in her hands. I practiced for a few months, and soon enough the recital rolled around. And do you know what? It wasn’t as bad as I thought. Sure, it wasn’t perfect, but that wasn’t the point. Once I let go of that underlying fear of mockery and judgement, life started to trickle back into the notes. I felt freer to explore my music as the art that it is rather than the science I’d thought it to be. And lately I’ve been realizing that this musical revelation can apply to the rest of my life as well.
For months, this bit of writing has sat half-completed in my drafts folder. I don't quite know why I felt the need to finish it now; for a while I suppose I felt like I needed to be in a Better Place in order to publish it without feeling like at least somewhat of a fraud. (Well, that and the fact that I initially penned the whole thing without using any capitalization whatsoever, because I am a Serious Writer Who Makes Excellent Artistic Decisions at One in the Morning, and the prospect of fixing that mess hurt me on a variety of levels.) I suppose never felt like I knew where to end it. I have no satisfactory answer as to why I've written next to nothing in these few months, except that once I sat down to work on something and just cried instead, because it felt like I was scraping the bottom of a dry well with my fingernails and every word felt as lifeless and hollow as bones.
Lately, though, I think I’ve realized that it doesn’t really matter what kind of a place I’m in: I’m still going to have flaws. It's not any good trying to bury them beneath a heap of clever words: they're still going to be there. But a handful of existential crises later, I realized that that, too, doesn’t matter as much as I seem to think, even if it is frustrating to those (like me) seeking to wrap up their story in pretty ribbons and set it out as a gift for the rest of the world. God knows all my flaws in a kaleidoscope of detail that I couldn’t even begin to fathom, and He still loves me anyway. And when the person who shaped the stars from nothing deems it fit to call you His daughter, why waste any time whatsoever bothering what people think?
There’s still a lot of me that’s still rough around the edges. There are pieces that panic over nothings, that crumble under the smallest stresses or harsh words. There’s a lot of me that’s still afraid, still imperfect. But maybe there’s a part of me that’s learning that it’s ok to be vulnerable too.
Maybe it’s time to start writing again.
There’s still a lot of me that’s still rough around the edges. There are pieces that panic over nothings, that crumble under the smallest stresses or harsh words. There’s a lot of me that’s still afraid, still imperfect. But maybe there’s a part of me that’s learning that it’s ok to be vulnerable too.
Maybe it’s time to start writing again.
