Beautiful writing strikes at my heart and makes every part of me want to take part in the conversation. Most recently while flipping through a memoir on love and marriage, Hourglass, I was struck by an overpowering and physical need to contribute to this strange, amorphous canon of literary work, of timeless human storytelling.
How beautiful, love is.
How dazzled the writerly life must be.
How grateful I am! To know what she means when she talks about love. And to know nothing—yet—of what she means when she talks about marriage, that looming adventure.
And yet the eternal tension lives and breathes on. To want to say something but not know how to say it. To have ideas but not the right words.
I am, day in and day out, tormented by fragments of poetry that want to come together and paralyzed by the distance between these fragments.
Finding the truths to speak is maybe like fishing. You hone your senses and learn to find your fish, an entire school of them! But when you cast your net, they prove flighty, slipping and swimming from you in quick darts, outwitting your painstaking labor so that at last when you recover your net hoping for plentitude you find only a few stray, half-dead things, orphaned from the whole to which they belong, enough for a meal but only just barely. You will have to make do.
Every day the thought: I have things to say! It feels life-giving to say them. And every time I sit to write the realization: where did they go? What spark still has a bit of its light left? How to keep them twinkling as they wilt in the stagnant pond of my unexpressed thoughts, waiting to be given form? To be, rightfully and at last, released into word?