In the nights of my childhood - which are still so close to the nights of my adulthood - thunderstorm, blown fuses, and unpaid bills often stole the light from my home. When, in the dark, I had no buzzing electronics to drone on entertainment or knowledge my way, I had no light to read by, and my mind would tell me stories. The stories of my mind in the darkness of my home would pull me into them. I never thought of remembering as an important part of this ritual; my only goal was for the moment. When I grew, I felt the loss of my moments and memories and I mourned. Then, I wrote. I wrote to block out the darkness, and I wrote to keep the light bright.
Joan Didion and I share many aspects of our writing trials and tribulations in her piece “Why I Write”. Reading her was a very reflective experience for myself, as I had so often been the thinker of the surrounding information, or as Didion puts it, the “peripheral”. She writes about how she “tried to think” and couldn’t. Facts for both Didion and I come in and out as a means of giving the authorities what they desire but they end up meaning so little to our lives as writers and people. The dates and times are lost in lieu of the colors of the hats worn and the scent of a gently worn gardening gloves. But Didion and I veer on one important area. We seem to differ on what it means to be a writer. Didion puts it artfully and on a pedestal, saying : “a writer, a person whose most absorbed and passionate hours are spent arranging words on pieces of paper”. Why must one enjoy writing to be a writer? And, not only enjoy it, but enjoy it more than any other activity? Not all accountants love their job, does this not mean they are not accountants? A writer cannot enjoy an activity more than arranging words? Then, Didion, what are they to write? A writer, to my knowledge, is one who writes. A good writer, to my knowledge, is one who lives enough to have something worth putting on paper. And that should be the end of the distinction.
I am certainly a writer. I write. Phrasings and word choice are working through my mind always but through speech they find difficulties in both order and effect. On paper, the texture of what I think is jagged and rough. This is how I think and how I wish to express these thoughts. Unfortunately, I am trapped behind the voice of an audio-book commercial voice-over artist. My voice is not an appropriate venue for my poetic though. For my angry thought. My voice is only appropriate for this forum: the essay and speech-giving forum. But this writing is not what keeps me alive and thriving. This writing is not a lifestyles. And I write to express my jagged thoughts and rough ideas. To get the answers out. To get the questions out. To break through anger and injustice. I am a writer. I find it sad to think not everyone has that joyful self-designation.
Advice is a tricky word, but if I had to give it to those starting out as writers my first instinct is to say: write. Writing is not as scary as you’ve been told. But it is exponentially more important than you have come to think. Don’t be afraid to enjoy what you’ve done. Revel in phrases of beauty. Be proud of yourself. And that is when you edit. However, if you hate each word that you have laid down before the eye of the masses and more importantly yourself: don’t touch a letter. Leave it, I beg you. Crimes of passion are oftentimes impossible to recover from. Editing under duress has destroyed more beauty than a swift southern hurricane or the lost habitation of a rainforest.
As for advice from a more established voice, Ron Koertge wrote a piece “Do You Have Any Advice For Those of Us Just Starting Out?”. In support of what I said earlier regarding Didion, Koertge instructs : “Give up sitting dutifully at your desk. Leave/ your house or apartment. Go out into the world.” He praise the virtues of living live and carrying a writing tool while doing so. The overall message seems to be: write, but more importantly, live.
And, in the end, you might want a reader. The relationship of reader to writer is such a special and unique bond. Poet Billy Collins writes about his relationship in “The Flight of the Reader”. He speaks as if he is in an intimate relationship. At first glance, without taking into account the title, this reads precisely as a love poem would. However, he ends with the caveat that he does not have a crush on his reader. He says: “It’s not like that. Not Exactly.”
Speaking as freely as possible, my relationship my reader is like a dinner party. The room is crowded at this dinner party. And everyone is dressed in suits or gown and there are at least five red. Three purple, and six blue neckties. And thirteen bowties. But, I am wearing a top hat, and walking in six inch stilettos, after locking up my unicycle outside next to the fountain, next to that of my reader. And through this dinner party, I will try to find this person. And we will eventually speak, and I think he will get me, sometimes. But mostly, he will be intrigued each to ask “who rides a unicycle in stilettos?” and I like to think he would read on to find the answer. Because, unlike Billy Collins, I won’t deny it. It is “like I have a crush on you” It is that “I cannot live without you”. It is like that. Exactly. Don’t get me wrong, I have no stake in what you think or say. I really write for myself. As long as I am here, present, and accounted for, I have the reader I always hoped for. I had better strap on some stilettos…Signed,
Cassandra Rose Blaise DeMarco
Cassandra Rose Blaise DeMarco
