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creativity, fiction, leap of faith, literature, risk taking, short story, writing, writing process
Writing, or any creative endeavor, to some extent is a leap of faith and a huge personal risk. Faith that what you have to offer others will be worth the time it takes to read your work, and will add something of value to their lives. And the risk, of course, that you will fail in this attempt, that the work you take such pleasure in creating, and spend so much time and effort on, will not be read, or have the effect on the reader as you had hoped.
So why take that leap, that risk? Interestingly, I found some clues for why we write in an early draft of one of my short stories, “Tamara in Her Garden”. It’s because of where we are leaping and why. Here are those clues:
There is an old Taoist saying: Things are created out of their innermost intuition. I see myself that way, a creation of my own intuition. I pick and choose among the rubble of my life, the memory, dreams and fantasies that please or surprise, and so create myself. Not so much a thing of beauty but of bone and balance, voluptuously detailed and ever changing. I would not complete myself if I could.
Later on in the same story I write:
Justin thinks of this garden as my asylum . . . . A place of refuge where I sequester myself from reality. I do not see it as such. I see my garden as highly invigorating and precarious, teeming with raw necessity, a microcosm of all the life and beauty, decay and death, that ever was. I stand in my round garden as if standing upon the edge of a precipice, poised for flight. Not to escape, but to delve more deeply.
In some strange way, I am everything I have ever known. I am my father. And my Aunt Rose too.
When we write, it’s as if we are leaping off the edge of a precipice, of life as we live it on the surface, and diving into the unknown, into our innermost intuitions and the half-forgotten memories, dreams, and fantasies that please or surprise, haunt or terrorize us. In some ways, we are diving into the collective unconscious–everyone and everything we have ever known or heard of or read about going back to that time and space in reality or imagination where the morning stars first sang together.
We do it to ferret out and piece together our own song, a more complete and comprehensive understanding of ourselves, our world, and each other–to discover what’s missing, fill in the gaps, piece together what’s puzzling, bind what’s broken, complete what’s been left undone or unspoken, reclaim what’s been lost or forgotten. We do so to find and follow the threads that weave it all back into some meaningful whole. We do it even while knowing that nothing is ever really completed, but continually evolves. This open-endedness is what makes it all so highly invigorating and precarious. Seeking that “something more” . . . .
I imagine we read for the same reason we write, to delve more deeply into life, the known and unknown parts of ourselves and our world, seeking the “something more” that lies ever so tantalizingly just out of reach, and might perhaps be grasped or at least fingered ever so lightly and stirringly in the next book or poem or essay we read.
Emily Dickinson once wrote: “If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.” Franz Kafka said: “If the book we are reading does not wake us, as with a fist hammering on our skull, why then do we read it? . . . . A book must be an ice-axe to break the sea frozen inside us.” That’s why I read, to experience that. And I write for the same reason.
Another excerpt from “Tamara in Her Garden”:
Sometimes I feel there is scant difference between a thing imagined and the actual event. In the passage of time, each is rendered mere memory, mere sensory image stored in the mind, anyway. What then separates the one from the other? All of one’s life, all of the long and homely details spun out across time are rolled up neatly, in the end, in one’s mind . . . . So what difference is there between an actual event that occurred with careless inattention and a thing imagined in meticulous detail? What is more concrete: the forgotten fact or the fiction seared forever in one’s mind?
Fiction that is “seared forever” in our minds is something that has deeply touched us, that rings true, and usually, in some important or moving way, adds to a deeper or more complete understanding of the world and each other. Fiction in this way is sometimes more real, truer, than fact. What poet Wallace Stevens called “the supreme fiction.”
Before I began writing today, I had only a vague sense of what I would say, in explaining why I write, and I had no idea the story “Tamara in Her Garden” had anything to say on that subject.
Until I wrote this, I was not consciously aware that the garden “teeming with raw necessity” could be seen as a symbol for the ground, the environment, out of which the creative act emerges and healing takes place.
Perhaps that’s the simplest way to look at why we write and why we read, to heal what ails us, to make whole. Even when we write or read for entertainment or escape, to leave the drudgery or stress or ordinariness of our daily lives, to transport ourselves to some other more interesting or exciting world beyond ourselves and our immediate concerns, perhaps even this is an effort to heal what ails us, if only in bringing some enjoyment into our lives. For what’s more healing or soul-satisfying than the experiencing of joy?
This is why I make that leap of faith, take that risk, in writing, because regardless of the outcome, whether read or not, published or not, the act of writing itself, the pursuit of that “something more,” is so immensely enjoyable. And joy wants sharing.
Wonderful; piece, Deborah, and exquisitely written, both your own quotes and your newer thoughts!
I well understand your saying you had little idea of what you were going to write when you began. That’s the mystery and the magic of writing, isn’t it. To finish what you’ve written and discover what you think, and so often it’s a surprise to find yourself there.
.It’s exciting and energising and exhilerating.
Reading this piece of yours also gave me that excitement and thrill of recognising one’s own half-formed thoughts, which I at any rate, could never have expressed so clearly and beautifully.Lovely, thank you…
Thank you so much, Valerie! I love that about reading to recognize one’s own half-formed thoughts. I’m always delighted when I encounter that in other’s writing too.
So beautifully written! I seldom read anyone’s writing that so immediately strikes me for its quality–not meaning to sound so fussy, but yours really is a pleasure to read, and it flows exceptionally well.
Your kind comments made my day! Thank you. I am so happy you enjoy my writing.
I’m never convinced a writer knows why she/he does it, they just do, We say it’s because we can’t be without it, but is that truly the reason? I enjoyed the quotes, all reminders and plausible reasons for our madness.
There’s probably as many answers for why we write as there are writers, and maybe none of us know for sure the “reasons for our madness.” A appreciate your stopping by and leaving a comment.
Great quotes from your story. I love looking back at old work and surprising myself. You’re right. There are just so many risks in writing…but if we don’t do it (us, writers) we feel lost somehow. Incomplete. I do believe that way we write reflects our inner-most desires and fears, and that’s one of the very top reasons I love practicing the art…the desire to know myself better.
Thanks Katie. I love hearing how other writers are inspired to write.
With 2 kids still in college and 2 p/t jobs, I feel so unappreciated. A trained monkey could sub for high-schoolers, a trained monkey could sell over-priced clothing to rich folks. But only I can write my books. It’s the only thing I do that can only be done by me. That’s why I write. My MIL says that if I’m not making any money at it I should stop…or write something she’d like to read (with no sex and lots of history). But I write what my muse presents to me, often in dreams, and I try to see it as my contribution to the wonderful world of words that has held me in thrall since I was 5 and my mother taught me to read newspapers to her as she cooked dinner.
Thanks for making me think about why I do what I do…we don’t often stop to question our own motives.
So well put, Fiona–another reason why we write. Thanks for adding to the conversation. I also sympathize with the 2 PT jobs situation. This growing low-wage piecemeal employment trend has been hurting so many families. For another post, another blog.
Reblogged this on MonkeyMoonMachine and commented:
A wonderfully calm, thoughtful, present writing.
Wow. I’m honored. Thanks for the reblog.
There’s something really beautiful here, and, like the half-formed thoughts mentioned above, hard to put into words, but your contemporary writing, and the quotes from your earlier story — there’s a wonderful voice here, a real sense of your compassionate mind (I’m not sure “compassionate” is exactly the word I wanted to use, but there it is) — the voice of this text (maybe each text one writes has its own unique voice?) is wise and also … I’ll stop talking now, but reading this made my day — thanks!
Thank you so much! Your comment made MY day!!