or two, or three…
I love my job.
Can I say that?
I love two of my jobs. That’s more accurate.
The intoxication of writing, of creating, possibility.
Reading t he “ten thousand pages of every page,” recognizing this breathless struggle against death with every key stroke. Because that’s what writers do, of course, we battle, strike viciously into the heart of our mortality with our language, as though language, the process of it, the mystery of it, can defy the shadow in the corner and trace us against the sky.
That is what I want to do. I want to write as I live and live as I write. I want to paint the sky in language, in sound, color, in light. I want to fill the pages of my memory, transcribe my flesh in ink. I want to write, yes, but what’s more, I want to be remembered.
That is the art of writing, the meaning of it, its strange gift and intoxicating promise. A kind of transformational immortality. I may not always be, but the words, my words, will.
It’s selfish, yes, but a dream that I succumb to again and again and again. Not to be read, not to be known, but to be remembered.
And to be remembered in a frantic, breathless way. To have my words be read, be imagined and re-imagined again and again, each time with new emphasis, with new meaning.
That is living, my own re-memory, re-imagined presence. Every reading brings new possibilities, the opportunity to touch and to be touched through language.
Because that is what we do, we write in defiance of death and time. Towards connections, building bridges through vowels and consonants, challenging the distance between us. We touch, across decades and endless landscapes in a timeless place of endless possibility – we imagine one another, remember one another, crafting the present as we design the future almost simeltaneously.
That is why am I a writer. Why I spend weeks dreaming about writing, writing about writing, caught up in the near frantic chaos of it. Intoxicated, powerless to deny it. I do not have something to say or to compose. I do not possess a story worthy of my reader. I am merely trying to reach, to connect, to possess, to touch my reader. Language is the only tool that I have and I wield it foolishly, tirelessly, in the small hopes of finding and being inspired by you.
I love my job.