First-Person Present Tense
Why I still write like I used to at seven.
There's a certain urgency in my writing I can’t seem to get rid of. I try to sit with this need to articulate the turmoil that moves relentlessly in here, but it eats me alive. Each word, each sentence, is an attempt to grapple with the emotions that swirl and spin within my mind.
I don’t have a structured plan or even a somewhat forgotten recall of one when I sit at my desk to write. Sure, the goal is clear, but honestly, I don’t have anything at all - most of the time not even an idea. I simply have this urge, this intense need, to let it out. What chooses to come will inevitably be written down. I’m a vessel, if anything, for the expression of the voices in my head.
I let my work sit next to me as I read that of others. I memorize sentences without meaning to, construct my thoughts like theirs while reading. I can’t seem to help it. I pick up their tone, I pick up their style. If I read the same author for too long I start writing like them (the great secret behind why I’m constantly reading more than two books at a time). However, my stubbornness still comes through.
In their work I see the balance, the steadiness. A story told as if recounted, an old memory dear to the author. The past tense is fundamental to the nostalgic feeling that fills me as I skim through characters, places, and plot twists. But when I open Scrivener on my computer there’s no past anywhere. Even flashbacks sound present. Everything’s here, all at once. When I’m influenced by someone else’s style it crashes and burns at every verb. There’s no recounting here. It is all happening before my eyes. In my head past and present intermingle, memories echo not as distant whispers but as thunderous tragedies, a downpour inundating my thoughts.
In a more positive light—an ongoing journey shines through the ever-present present tense. A perpetual exploration of selfhood, an unending unraveling of the complexities that define me. A reminder that despite the turmoil, despite feeling trapped within the confines of my own mind, there's a continuous narrative—a story that is still unfolding. Each word typed is a step forward in grappling with and understanding the complexity of my inner world.
The present tense is both a sanctuary and a prison - a vessel to navigate the boundless depths of my emotions. An attempt to articulate the intangible, to sculpt feelings and memories into palpable entities greater than the mere passage of time.
Perhaps it’s the somewhat subconscious belief that I am unable to come to terms with my past that spins me this way. It could all just be the fruit of this incessant desire to relive everything, understand it fully, and justify it, rather than an attempt to unravel the mystery that is the continuum of my existence. Still, it’s what I know. What I carry within me. All other options sound phony when written by me.
At seven I try to write stories to allow myself a way out. My mind fights back against it, wishing to remain a mystery for itself. I squint at the diary on my pillow and pick up my pen. ‘Mom looks at the clock at eight like she does every night and sighs, as the church bells ring outside our window. Her eyes are tired. I wonder what mine will be like when I’m older’.
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