I have stopped calling you imaginary. I have to believe that a reader is a real thing. Otherwise, why would we write? A piece of writing is a story, a thing to tell. It is innately a thing to be shared. And they say writing is cathartic; but sometimes it's scary and sad and a little like flaying your innermost being in a public square. And in that flaying, you lose some skin. It heals, but there are scars. And pain.
I just found a card from a college friend, someone I've known for the better part of 40 years. In his letter, in beautiful penmanship, he acknowledges how close we've become over our years in correspondence, and in the second paragraph comes out to me, tells me his story. We hadn't seen each other in about 10 years at that point, just corresponded. The card is signed: "I value your thoughts, your perspective, and most of all, your friendship. From the heart------."
How much of a leap of faith he must have taken to reveal that to me, and to all of his friends. Every act of writing- of good writing- should make the writer a little uncomfortable. You are, after all, exposing something of yourself that previously was hidden. A fear, love, a hidden treasure that may not be what others expected of you. Cracks may appear in your facade. Your melodious voice may screech. You might look silly or stupid or naive or asinine. But you were those things, all along, anyway.
Every act of writing is a leap of faith. It is faith in yourself, surely; that you will tell the story well and true as you can, or embellish and bedazzle it as to make it whimsical or wistful or wondering. But it is also faith in your reader - that's you- that you won't reject or hate or judge too harshly the storytelling: the foreshadowed warnings ignored; the poor choices, the easy outs, the things we did for love, the missed opportunities, the surprise endings. Reader, I married him, but lived unhappily. Reader, I ran away. Reader, I'm still seeking something. Reader, I trust you.
One of the most important (in my opinion) love stories in the English language is that of the poets Robert Lowell and Elizabeth Bishop. He was a serial monogamist, she a closeted lesbian. Despite their differences, they had a love affair of the mind. Each read the other's works. Each respected the other's voice and opinions. They missed each other and pined for each other in a way that was romantic and tragic and unfulfilled. But they never broke with each other. They knew each other's minds were fitted together, and really, what more could you ask for as a writer?
To write something- and share it- is to open a door into another room. You don't know how big it is, or who is in there. Might be three people, might be 300. You're going to share something with them- maybe they'll like it, maybe they'll hate it, or worst of all, maybe they won't care at all.
In the middle of the journey of our life, said Dante, I awoke an found myself in a dark wood, for the straight path had been lost. After that, he met Virgil, and Beatrice, and had all kinds of adventures in Hell, Heaven and Purgatory. So that's the writer's path, then. You wake up, start walking in the dark, and go through heaven & hell to get the story out before you lose it.
Here's part of the story of Elizabeth Bishop and Robert Lowell. Who is she talking to in the parentheses?
Read it twice, I tell my students every year. It will make the losses easier to master.
ONE ART
Elizabeth Bishop
I just found a card from a college friend, someone I've known for the better part of 40 years. In his letter, in beautiful penmanship, he acknowledges how close we've become over our years in correspondence, and in the second paragraph comes out to me, tells me his story. We hadn't seen each other in about 10 years at that point, just corresponded. The card is signed: "I value your thoughts, your perspective, and most of all, your friendship. From the heart------."
How much of a leap of faith he must have taken to reveal that to me, and to all of his friends. Every act of writing- of good writing- should make the writer a little uncomfortable. You are, after all, exposing something of yourself that previously was hidden. A fear, love, a hidden treasure that may not be what others expected of you. Cracks may appear in your facade. Your melodious voice may screech. You might look silly or stupid or naive or asinine. But you were those things, all along, anyway.
Every act of writing is a leap of faith. It is faith in yourself, surely; that you will tell the story well and true as you can, or embellish and bedazzle it as to make it whimsical or wistful or wondering. But it is also faith in your reader - that's you- that you won't reject or hate or judge too harshly the storytelling: the foreshadowed warnings ignored; the poor choices, the easy outs, the things we did for love, the missed opportunities, the surprise endings. Reader, I married him, but lived unhappily. Reader, I ran away. Reader, I'm still seeking something. Reader, I trust you.
One of the most important (in my opinion) love stories in the English language is that of the poets Robert Lowell and Elizabeth Bishop. He was a serial monogamist, she a closeted lesbian. Despite their differences, they had a love affair of the mind. Each read the other's works. Each respected the other's voice and opinions. They missed each other and pined for each other in a way that was romantic and tragic and unfulfilled. But they never broke with each other. They knew each other's minds were fitted together, and really, what more could you ask for as a writer?
To write something- and share it- is to open a door into another room. You don't know how big it is, or who is in there. Might be three people, might be 300. You're going to share something with them- maybe they'll like it, maybe they'll hate it, or worst of all, maybe they won't care at all.
In the middle of the journey of our life, said Dante, I awoke an found myself in a dark wood, for the straight path had been lost. After that, he met Virgil, and Beatrice, and had all kinds of adventures in Hell, Heaven and Purgatory. So that's the writer's path, then. You wake up, start walking in the dark, and go through heaven & hell to get the story out before you lose it.
Here's part of the story of Elizabeth Bishop and Robert Lowell. Who is she talking to in the parentheses?
Read it twice, I tell my students every year. It will make the losses easier to master.
ONE ART
Elizabeth Bishop
The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.
—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
Yes.
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