I was talking tonight, about the act of writing. I was trying to make sense of the reality of such a violent thing, and the way I half reject it.
It's a sensation I can only equate to food poisoning.
Yes.
Food poisoning.
In that moment, when you know you have eaten something bad. Your tastes change, and your mouth starts to water, and your stomach rumbles, and you feel generally bad inside and a little lightheaded. That is what the pre-writing feeling is like: for me.
It disturbs me. Affects my mood, my sleep. I refer to my muse as a bitch - and she is. She is domineering, selfish, intransigent, unapologetic, insufferable, brilliant and beautiful. She reminds me of Galadriel, quite frankly, in that moment when she speaks to Frodo at her mirror in Lorién. An internal tempest, a fury, a force of nature: this woman must be reckoned with. Why is she a woman you might ask? Because only a woman could be so callous with her own expression and care so little about my need for sleep. ;-)
When it comes upon me, be it in hours, days, or even if I can hold her at bay for weeks, it feels vaguely like nausea. I can almost feel the words, rumble around inside my body, like ill-tempered stones in my stomach. My mind becomes preoccupied with the idea that will eventually come forth. The prenatal story: it assumes no recognizable shape, though I feel it kick and move inside me.
And then, at the end, I write. I must. At this point, the torment is unbearable. I'm sick, flushed, beyond help and I'll do anything to placate her.
I'll tell all.
I'm baffled by the diarists, who assume that blessed detachment. I, I almost feel everything for the first time when I write it down. I expurgate my soul.
The initial response I had to the first hand experience is heightened anew. Each thread of the tapestry of that moment, I can run my finger along, unravel, examine. It's like being hit in the head with a phone book, and then going through it and reading each page to see what had actually assaulted you, line by line.
I don't proofread. And when I'm done, it's like a foreign entity. I know I have written it, but I scarcely remember. It's very much akin to giving birth. When that baby is now separated from you, after such labor and agony, after all the sacrifice and nourishment, it becomes its own being - independent from the host. That is writing.
I wish for the gift of prose.
I wish for the luxury of time.
I wish for the discipline to write a journal.
Instead, I have this anarchistic relationship with my muse. She disrespects me, has no consideration for my life, my schedule, my convenience. She is insistent - pounding on my window at two a.m., like some adolescent consumed with ardor. I let her in. She is insouciant. I love her. I can not resist her.
I wish she would leave me alone.
I can't bear to be without her.
It's a sensation I can only equate to food poisoning.
Yes.
Food poisoning.
In that moment, when you know you have eaten something bad. Your tastes change, and your mouth starts to water, and your stomach rumbles, and you feel generally bad inside and a little lightheaded. That is what the pre-writing feeling is like: for me.
It disturbs me. Affects my mood, my sleep. I refer to my muse as a bitch - and she is. She is domineering, selfish, intransigent, unapologetic, insufferable, brilliant and beautiful. She reminds me of Galadriel, quite frankly, in that moment when she speaks to Frodo at her mirror in Lorién. An internal tempest, a fury, a force of nature: this woman must be reckoned with. Why is she a woman you might ask? Because only a woman could be so callous with her own expression and care so little about my need for sleep. ;-)
When it comes upon me, be it in hours, days, or even if I can hold her at bay for weeks, it feels vaguely like nausea. I can almost feel the words, rumble around inside my body, like ill-tempered stones in my stomach. My mind becomes preoccupied with the idea that will eventually come forth. The prenatal story: it assumes no recognizable shape, though I feel it kick and move inside me.
And then, at the end, I write. I must. At this point, the torment is unbearable. I'm sick, flushed, beyond help and I'll do anything to placate her.
I'll tell all.
I'm baffled by the diarists, who assume that blessed detachment. I, I almost feel everything for the first time when I write it down. I expurgate my soul.
The initial response I had to the first hand experience is heightened anew. Each thread of the tapestry of that moment, I can run my finger along, unravel, examine. It's like being hit in the head with a phone book, and then going through it and reading each page to see what had actually assaulted you, line by line.
I don't proofread. And when I'm done, it's like a foreign entity. I know I have written it, but I scarcely remember. It's very much akin to giving birth. When that baby is now separated from you, after such labor and agony, after all the sacrifice and nourishment, it becomes its own being - independent from the host. That is writing.
I wish for the gift of prose.
I wish for the luxury of time.
I wish for the discipline to write a journal.
Instead, I have this anarchistic relationship with my muse. She disrespects me, has no consideration for my life, my schedule, my convenience. She is insistent - pounding on my window at two a.m., like some adolescent consumed with ardor. I let her in. She is insouciant. I love her. I can not resist her.
I wish she would leave me alone.
I can't bear to be without her.
No comments:
Post a Comment