A Writer
What makes one a writer? Can you be a writer and yet not write? But form sentences within, thoughts and prose and character and plot. Writing is endless, there is no endpoint, no final destination, it keeps going, keeps unfolding, keeps uncovering, keeps unfurling. Writing can be whatever one wishes it to be, it can be whatever one dreams it to be.
With writing, there are no rules. New styles can be forged, new ideas, new ways of conveying. When one “tries” to write, it can become stifled, choked, suffocated, forced, less a flow, less a dance, a bloom unfolding, a season, developing. There need not be anything writing is, and anything writing is not. The very act of writing itself can be classed as such, for everything that is written, one must write it. But even without the physical act, even in the moments where one is not undertaking the pursuit, one is still a writer.
Writing is a way of seeing, a way of believing, a way of living, a way of perceiving. Writing takes another route, a deeper route, an unpeeling. Writing throught the act, or through the thought, or through the life, is an uncovering. It’s endless. Some perhaps awake one day and declare, “I am a writer!” and set forth undertaking the act. Others, perhaps, are born onto this day and age with a knowing from the very beginning, “writing is what I do, who I am, my pursuit and vocation”. And some, like myself, this writer, uncovers such a desire from her own journey of inner discoveries, and writing becomes not just an adventure, a seduction, an invitation, writing becomes a necessity.
Writing is sometimes torturous, often tortuous, and sometimes a refuge. Sometimes it is joyful, and sometimes it is painful. Writing is always an expedition of a sort, it is always an investigation — into oneself, into a world, into a fantasy, into a dream, into a subject, into a something or anything. Writing can go straight to the point, or it can jump, twirl, twist and dance. It can serenade and allure, it can shock, awake and disrupt. Writing can do anything it damn well pleases.
When writing, and reading on writing, and reading writing, one is connected. There is a sense of connection to not just a story, subject or idea, but of that of the life of a writer, that of thinking as writing and living as a writer. When one is connected, a true writer, in which anyone can be, but a true writer will often feel the call, the call to write. And many writers, though certainly not all, but certainly, a fair few will feel this sense of outsideness. As to be a writer, one must gaze through life from the outside in. It is necessary to explore the wider scape, the context in which all fits, in which all exists before it can be described. The connection can be likened to that of kindred spirits, connected through times, ages and eons, through writing.
I could sit here all day and write about what is upon my desk, or the day I had, the conversations that unfolded. A lot happened today in fact, but it does not interest me to share such details. To write such details, as I have now lived them out in real-time, and I could reflect, but unless it is for psychological release and caprice, I need not bother. I could fabricate a tale, the grandest most glittering and delightful tale that had ever been told, and charm you inwards, and heighten and enliven your senses, unfurl your thought. Or I could share onwards in which I have learnt, in which no amount of writing could quite possibly convey, as learning is in forever motion and continuation and never ceases, never ends.
When writing, from one’s heart, soul, or desire — in whatever multitude of form, style and genre it may take, one connects with all writers, past, present and future. Writing is a lineage, a linkage, a creative force and energy, that is shared. That is why it is said that ideas, that inspiration, finds a writer, the writer does not always find the idea, though sometimes they do too. A poem, a line, can come to the writer like a strike of lightning, or it can flutter in, like a ripened leaf falling from an autumnal tree, softly. Or, one can fight for a poem, in the boxing match on the page. Come forth! Any emotion can bring forth writing, and even when not writing, the writer is still writing within. And the writer is always, living, thinking and dreaming as a writer. The writer is still a writer, even before she has ever written.
