The first words dripping from my fingertips see the light with their eyes squeezed shut, gasping violently for air on the cold white computer screen.
I feed them with emotion; I clothe them with adjectives, I bathe them in discourse. This is by no means an easy process, because for every word I write I must write another word, and then another one, and another.
The first words dripping from my fingertips see the light with their eyes squeezed shut, gasping violently for air on the cold white computer screen.
I feed them with emotion; I clothe them with adjectives, I bathe them in discourse. This is by no means an easy process, because for every word I write I must write another word, and then another one, and another.
This sequence must make sense, it must convey a message, preferably my intended message. Writing is a schizophrenic activity.
A writer must have a complete grip on her words, while writing so many more. Every word is grabbed by its pink, wet heels and thrust in front of the microscope to check for defects.
Then comes the scalpel, and my beautiful creations are dissected, diluted and ultimately returned to me shadows of their former selves, almost like Lord Voldemort’s foetuslike appearance in the fourth Harry Potter movie: atrocious and screaming.
I never realised exactly how much I sucked at writing until I had to teach others. My poor tutees; shame, week after week they ask me questions about grammar and sentence-structure and I’m like, what?
Go read your style guide! Here are some things you need to know about me to understand this column: I’m loud, impatient, bossy, and I like to blow my own kuduzela.
When it comes to writing, however, I’m insecure, slow, neurotic and selfdeprecating. So why do I do this? Why not just stay at home and watch series all day?
The answer is that writing is the only way I know how to express myself. Have you met me in person? I’m awkward, weird and madly inappropriate.
But when I write, I can be anyone. I thrive on praise. I have a hunger for it. When someone tells me they like my story I grin myself a headache.
So I carry on. Write and write until I find that one immortal line, answers to the questions I don’t even have yet.
You practice, you bleed for your craft, you a take strong drink Hemingway style and you never give up, because somewhere among the drivel you might hit a vein, you might produce something amazing.
Part of creating perfection is to cut away the frills. William Faulkner spoke about killing the darlings, to delete unnecessary words, no matter how much you’ve become attached to them. It’s a mad world that’s instilled this cruelty in me.
Every day I write words, and I kill them off again. Like Sisyphus I roll my rock up the hill, going one step forward, two steps back, in search of perfection, aware that it’s unattainable, just repeating my new mantra: remember to kill the darlings.
