If you want to know someone, ask them to write something for you.
Over the last few years, I've discovered that writing exposes you in a way very few things can.
By that logic, yes, of course, all art does. Like painting. What you draw, how you draw, the colours you use, they're all give-aways. Movies, dance, even how you cook, all of that.
Yes, but I still feel writing (and this may be because I am a writer) can strip you naked in front of people. In front of people who don't know you at all.
I've been accused of judging people based on how they write. Guilty. But it's so much more than playing Grammar Police. Of course, if you send me a text message saying "Hi, I dont think that will happen," and then follow it immediately with one that says, "*don't", you've won my heart forever. And just so you know, I've registered the comma after the 'Hi' and the capital use of H too.
Of course, all these are turn-ons, but that's just one level. I am looking for who you are.
You write to me in a message:
I went to a family function this evening. Everyone was there, it was so much fun. We laughed and ate so much food! (I can tell you've had a great time at your family function)
Or you write this:
My cousin got married today. The Guzzus were out in strength today, and we sat around and did what my family does best: laugh and eat. It was more fun than I've had in a while.
(I can tell you have a married cousin you like, I can tell you're aware of what your community is like and is ribbed for, you love it and that you're capable of making jokes about it. I can also tell you love spending time with this particular part of your family)
See what I mean? This is not about how you SHOULD write. No, I am merely saying these are two very different people.
The way you write tells me not just what you're thinking, or your opinion on something, but it tells me, in black and white, what you feel.
Let me explain.
In the last two years, people who've read me forever started to notice something different about the way I wrote. There was a piece that was well-written, it was perfectly adequate for the purpose it was supposed to serve. You couldn't fault it. But it wasn't always me. They said, at some point, there's a sense of a wall we can't cross.
Some said they felt cheated. They sensed a wonderful madness in the writer, a free spirit, and a potential of it coming through in the writing, but I refused it. The tip of an iceberg. Apparently, I no longer allowed them in. That I remained, in the story, tantalisingly, just out of reach.
It was not conscious. I did not know when it happened. But here's the incredible thing: I was going through a terribly painful time in my life. And I did not allow myself to show it. Betrayal, hurt, all of it. I hid it from everyone, what had happened to me, the injustice of what had happened, I hid it all. Even from the people I saw everyday. It became a way of life. To lie about it. To hide. To constantly worry about 'appearing' okay. To laugh when I wanted to cry. To smile when I wanted to yell. To purse my lips when I wanted to slap. Everyday. For more than a year. I withdrew inward. I took shelter inside, deep inside, where no one could see me.
Costly decision. Because my writing followed me. It became everything I was feeling. Withdrawn, walled in, sometimes full of fake abandon, and the most important thing: it was without me. I was lost.
Sometimes, a stray sentence, a stray story even, would suddenly bring me forth. So all was not lost. She was in there somewhere. Just too embarrassed to write what she felt. I tried to put it down, but couldn't. It wouldn't come. I told close friends that it refuses to come and they said, have the courage to write badly. Be brave and let all the rubbish out. You've stashed everything away. Deep inside. But the main thing I was told is this: don't be embarrassed. Let it flow. Don't hide behind words and smart phrases, readers will know. If you're feeling like shit, and writing rubbish, do it. Puke it out. Do anything. But write. write. write.
They also said, it's like going to a shrink, only free. Writing is therapeutic.
This is me, then. This blog. No lies. No pretence. I'll try and stay as true as I can.
And I am going to make sure it's the most fun anyone's ever had in therapy. :)
Over the last few years, I've discovered that writing exposes you in a way very few things can.
By that logic, yes, of course, all art does. Like painting. What you draw, how you draw, the colours you use, they're all give-aways. Movies, dance, even how you cook, all of that.
Yes, but I still feel writing (and this may be because I am a writer) can strip you naked in front of people. In front of people who don't know you at all.
I've been accused of judging people based on how they write. Guilty. But it's so much more than playing Grammar Police. Of course, if you send me a text message saying "Hi, I dont think that will happen," and then follow it immediately with one that says, "*don't", you've won my heart forever. And just so you know, I've registered the comma after the 'Hi' and the capital use of H too.
Of course, all these are turn-ons, but that's just one level. I am looking for who you are.
You write to me in a message:
I went to a family function this evening. Everyone was there, it was so much fun. We laughed and ate so much food! (I can tell you've had a great time at your family function)
Or you write this:
My cousin got married today. The Guzzus were out in strength today, and we sat around and did what my family does best: laugh and eat. It was more fun than I've had in a while.
(I can tell you have a married cousin you like, I can tell you're aware of what your community is like and is ribbed for, you love it and that you're capable of making jokes about it. I can also tell you love spending time with this particular part of your family)
See what I mean? This is not about how you SHOULD write. No, I am merely saying these are two very different people.
The way you write tells me not just what you're thinking, or your opinion on something, but it tells me, in black and white, what you feel.
Let me explain.
In the last two years, people who've read me forever started to notice something different about the way I wrote. There was a piece that was well-written, it was perfectly adequate for the purpose it was supposed to serve. You couldn't fault it. But it wasn't always me. They said, at some point, there's a sense of a wall we can't cross.
Some said they felt cheated. They sensed a wonderful madness in the writer, a free spirit, and a potential of it coming through in the writing, but I refused it. The tip of an iceberg. Apparently, I no longer allowed them in. That I remained, in the story, tantalisingly, just out of reach.
It was not conscious. I did not know when it happened. But here's the incredible thing: I was going through a terribly painful time in my life. And I did not allow myself to show it. Betrayal, hurt, all of it. I hid it from everyone, what had happened to me, the injustice of what had happened, I hid it all. Even from the people I saw everyday. It became a way of life. To lie about it. To hide. To constantly worry about 'appearing' okay. To laugh when I wanted to cry. To smile when I wanted to yell. To purse my lips when I wanted to slap. Everyday. For more than a year. I withdrew inward. I took shelter inside, deep inside, where no one could see me.
Costly decision. Because my writing followed me. It became everything I was feeling. Withdrawn, walled in, sometimes full of fake abandon, and the most important thing: it was without me. I was lost.
Sometimes, a stray sentence, a stray story even, would suddenly bring me forth. So all was not lost. She was in there somewhere. Just too embarrassed to write what she felt. I tried to put it down, but couldn't. It wouldn't come. I told close friends that it refuses to come and they said, have the courage to write badly. Be brave and let all the rubbish out. You've stashed everything away. Deep inside. But the main thing I was told is this: don't be embarrassed. Let it flow. Don't hide behind words and smart phrases, readers will know. If you're feeling like shit, and writing rubbish, do it. Puke it out. Do anything. But write. write. write.
They also said, it's like going to a shrink, only free. Writing is therapeutic.
This is me, then. This blog. No lies. No pretence. I'll try and stay as true as I can.
And I am going to make sure it's the most fun anyone's ever had in therapy. :)
1 comment:
Sometimes it becomes more important for us to reassure others that we're okay, rather that deal with the fact that we're not. Our writing knows this, allows it, and holds up a mirror to our withdrawn, cold faces when we need it most. You're right, therapy doesn't get better than this. Welcome to the blogosphere!
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