What Makes a Writer…
““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…””
There are these rare and stunning moments when you come across a piece of literature that absolutely changes you. I felt that upon reading James Baldwin’s novel, Giovannis Room.
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 tremor of the mans voice as he read this passage arrested me. I found it very difficult to continue listening. For years, I would rewind the recording to the beginning and find myself stopping at the end of this same passage, my chest tightening. I finally picked up the book from the library, and immediately understood the necessity of this story in my life.
I site this novel as one of my greatest influences, as it required me to ask deep questions about myself, about the world, and about my choices. 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 enter their worlds.
I can think of a few pivotal moments that have shaped my writing practice. One being my Grade 12 teacher, who approached all writing with a nightmarish fine tooth comb. I did depart from his rigidity, but I am grateful for how he imparted the need for clarity in ones 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 is an aphorism from an artist I worked with for several years - “Just do the thing.” They would repeat it so often that I was convinced they believed there was some unique magic behind their own words. Truthfully, it was just a valuable reminder to exercise the potential of a project by starting somewhere.
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 a matter of consistent repetition.
Writing needs a witness for it to have life. 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.