What makes a writer…
“In fact, of course, there is no secret knowledge; no one knows anything that can’t be found on a shelf in the public library.”
There are these rare and stunning moments when you come across a piece of literature that absolutely changes you. I felt that upon reading these words in James Baldwin’s novel, Giovannis Room.
“I feel in myself a faint and dreadful stirring of whats so overwhelmingly stirred in me then, a great thirsty heat and trembling and tenderness so painful I thought my heart would burst. But out of this astounding intolerable pain came joy, we gave each other joy that night…”
I remember listening to an audiobook of Giovannis Room about four years ago, the specific recording now has mysteriously disappeared from the internet. Something about the specific tremour of the mans voice as he read this passage arrested me. I found it very difficult to keep listening on. For years, I would rewind the recording to the beginning and find myself stopping at the end of this same passage, my chest tightening. It was something about the sequence of words…faint…dreadful…tenderness…intolerable pain….joy. The juxtaposition of affect held a piercing honesty.
I knew in that moment Baldwin had a bravery to his writing that I was fearful of. I site this novel as one of the greatest influences upon me because it required me to ask deep questions about myself, about the world, about my choices, about the pedestrian world I occupied but could barely contend with. It asked me to deal with the very simple but very important question - what exactly are you afraid of? And I have always wanted to be that kind of writer. A writer that could ask that same question to themselves, the characters they occupy, and the readers that stumbles across their words. But there is an art to asking that question without every uttering it.
When I think back on the pivotal moments that have shaped my writing practice, I distinctly remember the fine tooth comb that my Grade 12 teacher approached all my writing with. It was nightmarish at the time, and likely why I write in such a non linear manner now. I did depart from his rigid structuring - but I’m grateful for what it gave me - an appreciation for the no’s in writing. In my last few months of university, I took a course on death and literature. We read several harrowing autobiographies - and I remembered feeling strangely alive from our intimate group discussions. It was a softly rendered academic space discussing the tenderness and terror of writing about grief. There was an aphorism from an arts mentor of mine - “Just do the thing.” She would repeat it so often that I was convinced she believed there was some unique magic behind her own words. Truthfully, it was just a valuable reminder to exercise the potential of a project by starting somewhere.
While I can say all this - I am an incredibly tepid writer at times. It has been the greatest hindrance in my ability to exercise the avenues around me that would allow me to really showcase my writing. Despite the great lessons authors and teachers have given me, identify your fears, be clear and simple in your writing, be willing to be vulnerable, and just start somewhere - I often approach writing with far too much preciousness. The practice of writing, as is the practice of anything we do in this life, is the case of consistent repetition.
My goals in my writing practice is to face my own fears and focus on one writing project that would be deserving of public feedback. I want to find a community of likeminded writers who I can share my work with and be accountable to. And I want to share my smaller - more reflective pieces in a consistent blogging space. These goals - while yes more product driven - are oriented around continuing to find spaces to write. Because that is frankly the only way to improve. Removing the sensitivity and preciousness I have developed about writing can only be worked through as I am open to more voices and perspectives. I want my writers space to be a revolving door, not a bolted one.