Words & I

I still remember the first time I wrote my name.

Sitting in my father’s office, the yellow glow of his lamp lit the paper before me. My chubby fingers grasped a bubblegum scented crayon, and I drew the letters my mother had said spelled my name. 

It was hardly coherent and absurdly sloppy, but the accomplishment that swept through me in a fuzzy pink warmth was nothing but perfect. It was a revelation, a door opening in my mind. Looking at my hand in wonder, I realized then that life was just beginning. I had created something of nothing, taken a blank sheet and given it meaning, given it a piece of me. And that is what writing has always felt like: a part of me -- of my heart, of my soul. I think T. S. Eliot said it best, that “The purpose of literature is to turn blood into ink”. 

You can not get more intimate that by being inside somebody’s veins, and it was always this intimacy I craved: this genuity and raw emotion. I am addicted to feeling, to books that hurt and heal, that make you cry and laugh. I always wondered how people could have an aversion to reading because, for me, I can not survive without the presence of literature. Without the technicolor of emotions that literature provides me, my life falls to grey. I feel isolated and alone.

For me, literature has always been the signature of humanity. It is why anthropologists turn to literature in hopes of understanding people: across time, across nations and cultures, literature has always been present. It is the window to the soul. Literature puts lyrics to the voice in your soul, gives shape to the fingerprints on your heart. 

When reading literature, when understanding the subtext, I understand myself as well. The words are open to inspection, and this scrutiny is what provides a personal experience for me as I read. By examining the text and coaxing out truths and claims, I understand both the words and myself on a deeper level. I read to understand the world, to the understand people, and to understand myself.

When I read, I dissect. I explore the layers of implicit words and ideas in the text. I read it over and over, each time peeling back a paper-thin layer of words to find another layer just beneath the surface, more thoughts and ideas bubbling up. I consider the structure, the diction, the pacing, and the mood of the piece. I speculate and interpret what is said and what is not. Most importantly, I ponder the author’s decisions and why he/she made those choices. 

And just as I love to read, I love to write. To create. To feel. But I do not love it always. Sometimes I hate it, truly. I do not enjoy looking at a blank sheet of paper and wondering where to start. The worst part of writing, for me, is competing against myself. I am proud of the works I have written, but they set an impossible standard when all my mind is producing is incoherent babbles rather than pretty prose. 

Even worse is the insecurity that claims you are not a writer unless you are published, that your words are worth nothing unless they are read and enjoyed by others. And I tell myself that I am a writer because I write, but what of the weeks that go by without me even opening my document? 

Writing is not always euphoria and wonder; sometimes it is self-doubt and discontent. But like anything, there is good, and there is bad. 

And the good far outweighs the bad, in this case.