I write. I teach writing. I've earned my living as a writer. But, after years of "turning straw into gold" as my boss used to say, aka, making a full report of scanty information, I don't trust words. As T. S. Eliot says, "Words strain,/ Crack and sometimes break, under the burden,/ Under the tension, slip, slide, perish,/ Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place,/ Will not stay still."" Eliot's right (as usual). Words fail me. Regularly. I don't trust them to communicate the untranslateable groanings and yearnings of my heart. The joys and the aches.
Every word has been used. Every phrase. Each time I craft a sentence, or a paragraph, it reads like something I've written before. Even this paragraph, with its initial short fragments for effect and its eventual self-reference--writing a sentence about the sentence I'm writing--I've done before.
And so I go to music. I'm sure many musicians feel about chords and scales as I feel about words and phrases, but, for me, music--the runs and riffs that I tap out on the piano--are undiagnosed. They may not communicate as clearly as words, but they communicate more honestly.
The problem is, I'm home alone, and no one hears my music, and so I write to the void, knowing that the words will be caught and cared for, if only for a moment or an hour.
I have too much time to think during the summer. Too much time to consider my life--where I've been, where I am, where I'm going. Too much time to reminisce, to regret, to remember. Too much time to get overwhelmed by all that lies ahead. Too much time looking at the truth. That double-edged sword pierces, slices and makes general hash of my heart.
My thoughts don't go well into words, at least, not into interesting words (I haven't yet decided, but I think so far what I've written is navel-gazing drivel and I strongly suspect I will delete it). I want to write about the delicious gushing flavor of tomatoes grown in soil I own. The persistent neckache I'm ignoring. The community of believers I'm getting to know. The bittersweet joy of friends marrying tomorrow. The terror of creaks in the night. The devastation of baby clothes hanging precious on the racks.
I want to write about the personal heartaches that have no place online, yet somehow feel like the only part of life deep enough, and strong enough, to bear the written exploration. I need to go back to work so that I can be busy. So that I can forget.
9 years ago
8 comments:
Wow! Your thoughts DO go so well into words. That is why I enjoy reading them so much. For me, my tongue/fingers/brain seem to be perpetually on novacaine. I can't communicate the deep aches of my heart but when I read you and others with your gift I can say, "Yes! That's it! THAT is what I was/am feeling!"
Keep on, keeping on, Annie!
Hugs! Debbie
Thanks Debbie! What an encouragement! I'm so glad you're out there reading--and commenting. :)
your writing is incredible, as always. you have more time to think, and this appears to be a regret for you; i for one am glad you're "off" so i can read more of this kind of stuff!
spill it out, there's no one telling you you can't! i want to hear about the tomatoes, the devastation of baby clothes, and whatever else you want to share.
"pierces, slices and makes general hash of my heart." - brilliant.
I enjoy reading your words for the same reason Deb does - you can put words to what I'm often feeling or what I've felt. I enjoy it because we are similar in so many ways and have had such similar paths that it's comforting to know that there's someone else out there like me. Someone who's been where I've been, is where I am (in so many ways) and hopes to go where I hope to go. It gives me validation. I enjoy it and think it's beautiful, even when the feelings behind it don't seem that way.
Forgot to write about the music... Though it's fleeting, I imagine it's nice to be selfish and private with your emotions for a little while. I miss having a piano around for that reason.
Jen called me to talk to me about this posting. It feels like quite the Hungarian reunion. I am going to respond to you all in another posting, 'cause some of the things you've written have been hanging around in my mind, and I usually can't figure out what I'm thinking until I write it down. But again to all, and to Betsy specifically this time, thanks for the comments! I really appreciate your responses.
LOVE! Annie.
Your writing into the void sends up a spark. Few see it and fewer understand, but there it is set free. Suddenly the void is no longer a void, but a canvas for illumination. We see you, we feel you.
Fiat lux.
"I write to the void, knowing that the words will be caught and cared for, if only for a moment or an hour."
Someday these words may be listed as famous quotes from the world renowned author, Ann Elise Nelson, on your wikipedia page. Or maybe they will burn quietly in the hearts and memories of your dear friends.
Whatever happens with your fame and fortune, know your words fill the voids in all our hearts. I've never heard anyone articulate and so accurately describe my feeble song-writing attempts. I feel that you just spied on my in my living room as I doodle at my piano aimlessly. :) If only I could convert my silent musings to words and music that last beyond the moment...sigh. Thanks for understanding!
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