Quod scripsi, scripsi
Some observations of my craft (that I would do well to impose)
The thing is to write consistently. To write every day, in some secret place, in defiance of the haphazard careening of the hours that say: later, tomorrow, next week. These are things that currently elude me. To lie to yourself that you can tell stories, because if you lie enough, the truth appears. To not get bogged down and go back and edit immediately. To pretend that the delete key doesn’t exist (that is the most difficult art of all, to keep moving constantly, because at constant velocity the world might as well appear still).
The thing is to try a number of things and not expect to succeed, but to remember that you have already failed if you choose not to engage. To declare war on adverbs and adjectives, yet mourn each one’s death by strikethrough as if they were friends. To know that whatever you send out will probably not be picked up. To think that every little piece, hanging together by only the spaces between the paragraphs, is a little probe broadcasting a signal to the outer reaches of the universe, traversing a radius of the unfathomable, each self-contained, so that to angst about that if it were to be picked up is to realise that this might be all that they could surmise of you. To reread that sentence and wonder if it makes sense.
The thing is to not get cute because you know the difference between “If I was” and “If I were”, let’s not even get to the difference between en and em dashes. To not flush with embarrassment when your scribblings are read to a conference of your peers. To regard the reader as a friend to whom you are entrusting a secret. To court said friend because they might turn into a friend with benefits.
The thing is to realise that all the false starts and dead ends are better than the immobile blinking cursor on the screen as blank as the Nullarbor Plain. To remember the murdered darlings now and then in a resurrected but deftly subtle turn of phrase. To be grateful when you realise the word “quotidian” just made things sound pompous though its such a pretty thing to say.
The thing is, really, to press forward, to return after the cup of tea you promised yourself as a reward for getting to the fourth paragraph and not binge on Oreo cookies and Netflix, unless you happen to be writing at the same time. To reward yourself for getting back into the chair, even though creatively the past week or month or pregnancy or transit of Venus was drier than the Namib and colder than the fingers of a poltergeist raking across your face during a nightmare. To not write too many floridly embellished declarative sentences. To realise that everything has been told before, but not necessarily in the way you wanted it to be — and that that is why you find yourself getting repetitive strain injury on a keyboard (that’s if you’re doing it right).
The thing is, finally, to realise that when you have done your job properly, you have become Pontius Pilate to your reader’s Nazarene, though you are declaring them King by putting words inside their heads and not on top of them. And then, after a long time, after going back and reading and writing more, and deleting some and reading and reading and writing even more, you may ignore the delicate sensibilities of those who would question who you are making King of the Words, for, then, what you have written, you have written.
