Being the Words

My words come slowly, with great pause, like drops of water in a frozen place, hanging in peril before splattering into oblivion. The wind pulls them off target, hurls them away into space that is forbidden, confused, and dark. Like a blind man, I feel the way forward with both hands outstretched, fumbling, sensing, following the near-physical turns and twists that lay out on the page before me. I do not write. I uncover.

Here, in this sacred space, I liken myself often to the blind. When I write, I see nothing. Ahead of me, there is nothing. Behind me drift my own ragged footprints across the snow. When I begin, there is but a blank page. The ink trails across in spurts, full of the dashes that anul half the words I attempt. On a computer, the “delete” button hides my errors, but I can always find a word to change, a word that doesn’t fit, like the wrong piece for that part of the puzzle. Yes, writing can be like a puzzle, I suppose, though there are no guarantees in writing. More often than not, I try and fail until I produce a failure that is less poor than the others.

When stuck, the words tumble through my fingers. I want new words, words that no one has used, or never strung together quite so. I want to speak truth, but I also want to create, and these goals do not lie well together. Creation is bolder, more contrary. Truth can be bold, but it too must be honest. I walk a tightrope between the two.

The words descend one after the other. They suck me into a trance. I tune out the noise: there is only the page, and me, and the words that travel from one to the other. Sometimes the words enter me and not the other way around. Sometimes I awaken, amazed by the mere fact of the words. Other times I am broken from the effort. I may become paralyzed from seeking endlessly, feeling for the phrase that refuses to present. I may tear up the pages, or turn away disgusted by cliches.

But the worst crime for a writer is the empty page, the pen in the drawer, the mind dusty from disuse. Though I may crack from the strain, though I may never share these words, and though they may not do my visions justice, still I seize hold of the words and write.