Metaphysics of Writing

I highly doubt that I am a writer. Words are difficult to conjure, and I am most certainly not a magician. I agonize and I ponder and get angry and make a declaration: “Well, that does it! I refuse to write another sentence!” This seemingly strong declarative statement and vocal resolution lasts about a day, maximum three. I go back to writing, but most of it disjointed, confused, senseless, and I suspect, just plain crappy.

 

My concrete and real mind is stronger than the doubting and self-denying mind, and despite the psychosomatic pain I experience in my relationship with writing, I imagine books and books, stories upon stories written by me. The fantastical nature of images moves from absolute and unyielding perception that everything I write is worthy of comparison to Dostoyevsky to absolute and unyielding perception that everything I write is a cliche. And cliches can create such a thick and muggy air that you could cut it with a knife. But we shouldn’t be afraid to write in cliched phrases. I guess that is what editing is for.

 

Maybe I am deluding myself into thinking that writing is enjoyable. Why then should I choose to be miserable by willingly participating in this weird endeavor? There is a release of anxieties (at least, those present for the moment) once a short piece is completed. I am not much for flowery and endless descriptions - get to the point! - and writing a short piece gives me a sense of satisfaction.

 

Then there is time. Facing the hours of the day. Does time work against us? Can time ever work for us? Existential anxiety emerges no matter what and for me, writing seems to be a good way to come face to face with disorders of the mind. Except sometimes, the unruliness and illogic have no face. It is then that we are left in a blank space of time, a gap of non-existence that denies reality and collapses the columns of our metaphysical structures. But if the illogic has no face, then it stands to reason that it has no being, and what good is it to try to have a conversation with a non-entity? You must move on then.

 

Paradoxically, the experience of writing is a tension precisely between this blank space, this scary monster under the bed, and the fullness of human condition, which includes both sorrow and happiness. There’s no going around it or taking any short cuts. It is a habit, which (if you feel compelled) must be cultivated. And to use a kind of cliche, you have to roll up your sleeves and get dirty.