I just genuinely love that part of me, because I know what it can accomplish, and, when I am lucky, how it can reach people. I put it ahead of so many things in my life. My nearly ritualistic commitment to tending to my writer self is a luxury and an indulgence but it is also a necessary part of my being. I said, “Yes, I live in service of the writer.Once I realized the writer was actually a better version of me, it got a lot easier.” My friend said, “You’re so good to your writer self.”Īnd, even though I had never uttered these words to anyone before, I replied so quickly I knew it had to be the truth. We were talking about each other, and our work. I did not say any of this to her, though. That must have been fifteen years ago, at least, but the experience of standing inside that sculpture was trapped within me forever. I remember thinking that I was not yet ready to leave this place and face the real world again. (What a fuck you it is, in a way, to make a piece of art sixty-seven feet tall, and I say that as a compliment.) The interior of it was designed to reverberate sound, and when I visited it, I found myself lingering inside it for a while, wanting to live in the soundscape longer, even as my companions were anxious to go. It was sixty-seven feet tall and made of steel. Then I thought of another piece of his I had seen once in Texas, during a cross-country road trip with some friends. I had enjoyed being off-kilter, and then finding my balance again. The experience of walking in and around them in a maze, one after another, the sculptures high enough to block out most of the natural light in the room, and how the design of it had destabilized me, until it forced me to find a new understanding of the space I was in. But we weren’t talking about men that day.įor a moment, though, I allowed myself to picture the series of sculptures at the museum. His work is big and bold and characterized by a particular brand of masculinity that has always made sense to me even when men themselves do not. She was texting me from a museum in New York that holds a few Richard Serra pieces I really love. I was talking about how I was not writing my best during this project but I knew I would be soon. She said she had rewritten the same chapter of her new book three times that day. I was chatting with a friend of mine two days ago about writing. (I know that sounds dirty and I do not care.) It is you alone with your words on the page and it is an intimate act. I want you to think this instead: I do this because I love it, and I choose it. Even if it is a challenge to you (it is almost always a challenge to me!), you shouldn’t feel threatened by it, or have an overwhelming sense of obligation or guilt. To realize that sitting down to write and taking the time to do it is to your benefit, and, ultimately, for your pleasure. If I could wish for you to take anything away from the past two weeks, it would be for you to have a healthier relationship with your writing. Not because you have to, but because you want to.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |