Over the last several months a friend and I have established a ritual of exchanging an evening email most nights.
The length varies, but always includes wishes for a good night and good dreams. It is a simple, peaceful, care-full ritual I have come to enjoy very much. Last night, though, I wrote that there was a need to watch out because it was a frustrated writer writing that evening…
I have a piece of writing I must get done within the next two days. I have written sonnets, stories, and talks. I have written choral poems performed by grade levels and articles for international publication. Can I manage to write up a telephone conversation I had with someone? No. And that frustrates me. I took notes during the call, I listened, I spoke, I was careful. But, now that I need to write it up, nothing I try seems to convey what I need it to convey.
I find myself asking, “Where have all the definitions gone?” I thought I knew what the words meant, yet when I put them together, instead of believing they express the necessary idea, I see nothing but inadequacy… So I try again, this time writing to anticipate the questions those reading it might have. But that means writing in a way that speaks to someone else, and not to my own experience of the conversation!
It’s all terribly circular thinking, I realize.
I wish I could circle around to something that would serve the need. I recognize that simple and direct is best–but not all topics lend themselves to simple expression. Or, if they do, they also beg questions by virtue of it.
The next person that tells me how easily words seem to come to me is going to get an earful–or pageful, I fear.