Writing is a counter-cultural activity because it asks us to go deep. Yes, you can say, ‘it was Tuesday, I was busy. The dog was sleeping. I felt anxious’. But even as we write those words we know we’re skimming it, like a pebble barely touching the surface of the water.
Wading out, we risk getting wet. Going deep takes more time. It takes more space too, also counter-cultural. Out there, with the water up to our thighs, we write:
‘It is Tuesday. The sky is a high white grey. My eyes are pinned back by the overhead light I switched on earlier when it was dark and forgot to switch off in the rush to get to my desk. Beside me, my diary is open, teeming with meetings, scrawled across each hour, an army of ants marching and munching through my day. My to-do list sits under it, miserably incomplete. To the side of the desk is my love, my dog, curled up like an oversized coffee bean, one leg at a right angle, like the first fragile shoot of a root. I envy her commitment to sleep, to doing nothing. But still, the incessant drumbeat pounding my chest. Gotta get it done, gotta get it done. Gotta get it done.’
Why bother?
When we say we don’t have time to write, it’s the fear of skimming that holds us back at least as much as the fear of going deep. Culturally, if it’s not a brilliantly incisive piece of publishable prose, then why bother?
I am a huge advocate of getting people to make accessing their writing easy. Sometimes we have to creep up to ourselves, to our innermost desire to write. Just a sentence, that’s all you need to do I say (though I know from personal experience, as writers we can rarely leave it there). Just 15 or 20 minutes, I say. Set a timer. Go.
We worry, I worry, 15 minutes isn’t enough. That’s what the sulky teenager within me says, her arms crossed, face lowered, lips downturned, not quite giving in to a full-on pout. What could I say in 15 minutes that’s worth saying?
Rebellion
We don’t know. With writing, we can’t always know the outcome. And that too is counter-cultural. Really? You’re going to spend time and energy doing something that you don’t know what the outcome will be? Is there even any purpose to your writing? Like, are you writing it for something?
Maybe it’s a story. Maybe it’s a line of thought. Maybe it’s a collection of words that are haunting you melodically, that itch to be placed side by side, short line after short line. Maybe it’s a rant, a prayer, a hymn to a higher power. Maybe it’s just saying, ‘it’s Tuesday, I’m busy, the dog is sleeping. I’m anxious because…’
Writing is an act of rebellion. It takes time. But not as much as you think. And the time you take to write your one sentence, to let it spiral into a whole paragraph becomes the 15 minutes when you didn’t answer emails, look at your phone, tend to the needs and desires of others. This time is your ticket fee, your entry into the republic of freedom. Here, you are yourself and the gladness of the page is the gift you get to take into the rest of your day, a slim sheet of autonomy in the book of your life.
Further reading
Poetry is not a luxury by Audre Lorde
