Life is difficult and messy. Much (if not most) of it is just plain hard. Our instinct is to turn away from pain, even run away. But there is a beauty and peace that comes with facing it, letting yourself be in the middle of it and just experience. That’s what we’re here for – the experience. It isn’t easy, but it can be (usually is) transformative.
I think that’s what I like about writing. It isn’t an escape mechanism, although it may seem that way to some. The reason writing is difficult for all writers is that it forces us to face life, to get in there deep and good. Writing is a dirty business, filled with stench, blood, sweat. Good writing, writing that moves us, comes from a deep non-ego place of knowledge (no matter how faint) of the human condition.
Writers are observers – it’s a prerequisite. We notice things most others don’t or choose not to. But noting and observing the external world is actually a piece of cake. The difficult part is observing oneself. THAT requires a certain level of detachment from the self.
You must be able to be the experiencer but also the objective observer. Is that even truly possible? I don’t think that matters.
What matters is that you can have an emotion or reaction or something while simultaneously being able to see it (without judgment), just observe. I think all writers go through this at some point in their lives. I’m pretty sure when you read their autobiographies or interviews they talk about this experience. Maybe not in those words.
Why I am writing about this? Does this even make sense to anyone?
I have been waiting to be “ready” as a writer, whatever that means. At 33, I have experienced my share of life with all that entails. Have I had the full human experience? I hope not. That would probably mean I was ready to part with this world and this human form I am currently taking.
For a long time I have felt like there was something I wasn’t “getting,” and now I think I “get it.” Does that make sense?
I feel there are some things I understand. I grasp them enough to be able to write about them. There are plenty I still don’t understand and maybe I never will.
I am constantly learning. For me a continuous thirst for knowledge is a sign of living. We innately want to know ourselves and the world around us.
I may never end up being the comedic writer I wish I could be. I’m more pensive, reflective. That’s just my nature. I remember even as a 9-year-old being told I have an old soul. I don’t know if that’s true. Maybe I was just royally messed up that I was more looking forward to adulthood than wanted to be a kid. Now that I am adult I much prefer it. Maybe that speaks to the pain of childhood (at least the pain I experienced). But I digress.
My hope with my writing is to inspire, to help discover, delve deep, look at things anew. Those are the things I do when I am writing. I go deep inside, try to discover something, and look at things differently.
I have stopped running. I have faced my demons head on, drank tea and wine with them. We have become familiar. I have shed many fears and attachments.
And the thing that keeps ringing true for me is that we are here for the experience. We have taken on these human forms in these lives, with these people and circumstances, to have a specific experience of humanness, and all that entails. Seen from that perspective, it is beautiful and meaningful.
Anyone reading this understand what I am saying? I’d love to hear your thoughts. Click on the + below to leave a comment.
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