Outside, it is raining.October 28, 2009 at 6:56 pm | Posted in writing | 20 Comments
Let’s not pretend. It is late afternoon and the activity in which I am engaged is typing. Which is preceded by thinking. Which makes for boring prose. When there is no time lag between the thinking and the typing, that activity I call writing. People are always telling me to write straightforwardly about my life. I can’t imagine what could be less interesting, even if I had a more interesting life.
I am sitting in an office on my own. Outside the office window it is grey and raining. Beside the keyboard a cup of tea is cooling. I wish it was early morning and I was lying next to someone warm and soft and completely relaxed and breathing and smiling in her sleep. To restrain myself from waking her by allowing my fingertips to marvel at the aliveness of her skin I would have to get out of bed.
This may be the longest piece I have ever written. It’s not that I have a short attention span, just that I see part of the skill of writing as condensation, the ability to say more using less words. Precision is the mark of an artisan in any field. The kiss would be placed at the exact point where her shoulder meets her neck, where the skin softens and pales and disappears beneath the cascade of her curls while the tips of my fingers traced the inside of her thigh.
I remember being less alive than I am now. In fact, the act of writing makes me feel very alive, makes me feel as if I am engaged in an activity with meaning. Nothing has meaning without context, including humans. Meaning is fluid, it is found in the relationship between things. When I am writing there is always someone reading, the words are not here, they are between us, connecting us and I would stand at the window staring at the rain, sipping tea and trying my best not to climb back into bed and be entranced by the rise and fall of her breathing.