sunday thought: saying nothing
01/08/2010 § Leave a comment
To be deemed a writer, a declaration — defiant, insoluble — of how I am not an animal, but a human being. It is a term to define me, my code cracked open for people to read me. If I do not have a title, I am not an open book. Instead, I would be a random journal of thoughts with no theme. Labelling myself as a writer is a romantic version of scribbles and notes, the purpose of the pen on paper, a detail to spark some one’s interest.
Writing is a craft — one that I wish to master by perpetually whittling away at it. In my mind, it needs shape and to have curves, it needs colour and form. It is a sculpture of my mind, subject to interpretation.
There are a lot of people that claim to be writers or lawyers or teachers or perpetual students. The titles tell the reader — sorry, perceiver — an aspect of those lives and categorizes them into a dictionary, of sorts. In class, Kate refers to all of us as writers, prescribing what should be done in order to fulfill a writerly role, “Half of writing is reading. So, read.”
If I spend my days reading, what will become of night? I wonder.
“Well, come on guys. You cannot just read, you have to dissect what you like and dislike about a piece. We are writers, that’s what we do.”
Second point taken.
Into consideration, the things writers read should be the basic blocks for future literary endeavours. Through this exploration, writers learn what the structure of an aliteration, a sentence, a paragraph and a story take. Writers learn how to man-handle the aesthetic (the sonic?) flow of words to appeal to… who(m)?
Every one else.
At times, I wonder if writers do not like to refer to themselves as writers because of this tendency towards mass appeal. To be a writer, a prolific one, means that his or her thoughts, the ones he or she thinks are unique and special, are not only shared but understood. By every one. That is what it is all about. Writers are supposed to be accessible because, for the most part, they want access into some thing that they cannot quite put their finger on.
Still, to say, “I am a writer!” would leave a vague sense of exhilaration. It would don me a label that spells out how I am different from him or her or you. It would make me feel giddy, like winning an award as an individual, no better, but separate from the group. By saying I am a writer I would feel like I have some thing, although intangible, to contribute, a part of my self that I usually save for me.
It makes me weary because words, much like everything else, cut me open and put me on a table — vulnerable, scattered and unbound. You could read my thoughts and feelings, take note that I am a perpetual paradox, even a hypocrite, wearing two different sleeves, pages turning inside from cover to cover, you could see my typos and tasteless design, scenes and messages that drag on forever, wait for the climax and with time realize, as I have, that there isn’t one. Still, there would be something liberating in it as though I would get to break through my clay enclosure and bear a life with form.
Most of the time, I find words difficult to carve into meaning. A message is so much more than these funny little things.
So, I think to myself:
Some times, things are better left unsaid.