Screw The Writing Advice–An Untethered Rant About The Miracle Of Magic
A stream of consciousness let loose from the void. A word-offering. The burden of writing worlds into existence.
The burden and the wonder of writing is this: we have been tasked with describing the indescribable, and we are either arrogant or innocent enough to do it.
Over and over again, without fail.
Have you ever gone back to a story you told and felt the power of the words, the miracle of what you have done? You’ve made something from nothing, drawing truths and humanity out of thin air.
And when people ask you how you did it, you can only say wistfully, I just told the story. Have you ever wondered at the thing inside of you that weaves these stories from start to finish?
I have unraveled myself inside of my own work, the work of others, and I have looked deeply at each and every thread that made me the person on this side of the words. I have no more explanation for it now than I did before.
It is all magic.
We give and get advice in order to know this magic, to control it––but we know, deep down, that we can only follow it a little better, feel it a little more deeply, understand it only inasmuch as we can understand the untethered miracle of our own existence.
To write is to know that we cannot know anything at all. We can only tell stories in the dark, we can only weave humanity from the winding path of wordless names and secret things that nobody has borne witness to. The first storytellers saw what hadn’t been seen. They revealed these things to the world, and they made the unreal into something real.
How do we distill that process, that ecstatic knowing, into advice and platitude? How do we make accessible the things that only surrender can access? To write is to be born, over and over and over again.
To write is to cry out in the wilderness about all that you have heard, and known, and seen. It is an act of witnessing––a revelation of all all you saw, the eternity you witnessed when no one else was there to see it.