Writers Are a Myth
You’re Either Deadweight or a Spellcaster; No Alternatives Exist
It’d be a real shame to call myself a writer or a poet if I couldn’t put into words those things which people who wouldn’t describe themselves as ‘committed writers’ generally struggle to.
I’m honored to be a mirror afront which people can understand themselves a little better. It’s all I ever try to accomplish with my writing, really. I’d be quite useless if I couldn’t at least do that much for wounded spirits, after having spent so much of my time in the company of words.
I’m hopelessly pedantic with words, I am. And that’s alright.
We each express ourselves differently — we should, anyway. For a writer, failing to capture what most would deem ineffable, with words, would be akin to being a firefighter incapable of extinguishing a single ember. It’s a writer’s job, you see, to effectively put words to things “too difficult for words” — to invent language for experiences alleged to lie too far beyond description. I’d be Failing at my one true job if I couldn’t do the sole thing that being a writer entails, is all I mean.
Navigating the maze that is the writer’s mind is too often quite the hassle, as you surely know, if you, too, fancy yourself a wordsmith. Writing keeps me sane. It may not ‘be for everyone’ to the degree that it undoubtedly is for me, but I sincerely do believe that any human who at least takes up journaling with some seriousness is due to die a happier, healthier, comparatively introspective creature in the end. Us humans are many things — talkative is one of them. Our relationship with words, I believe, is one of out of the handful of things that distinguishes us from other entities and lifeforms with whom we share this planet.
I recently came across a quote that immediately became a favorite:
‘The syntactical nature of reality, the real secret of magic,’ quipped McKenna with a knowing pause, ‘is that the world is made of words. And if you know the words that the world is made of, you can make of it whatever you wish.’ A deft familiarity with words — to put it differently — might just, therefore, change your life. Literally, I suppose. ‘The world is made of words,’ dear friend. It very literally is. It’s what McKenna said, what I myself believe, and what I’m ultimately trying to get across here to you now.
That the world which you and I inhabit is literally made of words… is a deceptively stupefying fact that anyone pretentious enough (or perhaps ashamed of having to) call themselves a writer seriously ought to know. If you are someone who can be rightfully described as someone with a ‘knack for words,’ no matter the extent, you ought to know that you wield isn’t merely words, but the power to conjure, enliven, or obliterate through the assembly of them — nothing short of magic, the real thing — in other words.
This isn’t a point that I feel I ought to, in any way, bolster or argue in defense of. It’s a point, I believe, that one need only ponder with due seriousness for an honest moment merely, to become shortly thereafter recognized as a simple, honest truth — and yet, nevertheless—one bearing disproportionately far-reaching implications, all too self-evidently costly to either overlook or fail make the most of.
A respectable scribbler is a sorceress, a decent wordsmith, a wizard — a good writer is nothing less.
And this… you really, truly ought to know.
PS: to the very few of you who happen to enjoy my works, particularly my poetry… I’d like to invite you to read my mentor’s works. Her musings, I’d say, are almost identical to my own in terms of style (only better). I’d really love to see her own gradually growing collection of unrelentingly expressive works take flight here on Medium, at some point or another, with some exposure. There isn’t much yet available on her page, but I hope you find the little that is there worth a moment of your time. Umi, I’m sure, would very much appreciate it.
