The Solitary Writer

Aren't we all?

They say writing is a solitary form of expression. Of course the know-it-all "they" are right. This has always been an attractive element of writing for me. And writing is expression. Because I can't sing (though I try) or paint, writing it is.

But back when I didn't call myself a writer, I used to think that word "solitary" described the physical act of writing. When you're sitting alone in a room at a desk in the dark hours when it's most quiet, bent over a keyboard, clove hanging out one side of your mouth, pounding away furiously out of fear the words will leave your head if you don't get them out quickly enough. That's solitude.

But it's not the only kind.

I have almost forgotten how heavy the feeling can be when the words aren't there. The heavy feeling of solitude follows me around when I think about where in my book I am. Or when I wanna try my hand at fiction. Laughable. "There's this guy and he--" it's as far as I get.

"To be born an eagle one must get accustomed to high places; to be born a writer one must learn to like privation, suffering, humiliation. Above all, one must learn to live apart. Like the sloth, the writer clings to his limb while beneath him life surges by steady, persistent, tumultuous. When ready plop! he falls into the stream and battles for life." -- Henry Miller, Nexus

I'd like to say it's all this for me. Maybe "like to say" isn't exactly it. I'm rarely humiliated and I can't say I suffer. Privation, though. Yes. I like the private expanse of my head when it's on a roll. I like narrating my reactions to people; people's reactions to me; and just the way it is. I like putting my own head spin on what I see. Random observances take on a prose style. And I write.

The random, though, isn't the only opportunity I take to write. I'm writing a book about my life. I'm only 34. Enough has happened, I believe, to put down on paper. That it's about my life means I don't have to record my current state. I save that for my journal when I write in that. I save that for the stories I tell the people I know. It's the stuff that happened back there, though, that I force myself to conjure. To translate. And to put down.

And that is the struggle. Weaving it together to make a larger point that more than five people have a chance at getting something from.

I think about it. I think about the pattern that my past events have formed. How to write it? Sometimes I hate periods, that easy way to end a thought. What will come next? And the big period that comes at the end of a chapter -- if I can bear to reach the end of a chapter. Where do I go next? This is every day, whether it's on paper or in my head. Now it's in the first-draft phase. But even that doesn't seem to be enough. I keep having to remind myself that the first draft is where the crap comes out. It's what I can mold at a later date. So I put periods on the sentences and I move on to the next one. Usually in fear. And usually in the wee hours of a weekend morning while listening to my Musicalicious playlist.

That fear, though, is starting to dissipate. It's that voice I've got when I'm on a roll that I'm forcing to come out more and more. Now that's the action. The first two pages usually, invariably, suck. But then something happens in my fingers and I feel the words coming, knowing full well, mind you, that they might suck, too. But the words seem to come out a little stronger. Faster. And I'm already thinking about the next page, while my fingers work to catch up. That's the thing. That feeling.

I'm on page 270. Much will be cut once I reach the end of draft one. Oh the end of draft one. I can't wait. All I have to do is get to page 271.