The desire to write, for me, stems from a desire to share, to communicate, to try and reach across a divide which says that you are an other, separated by your skin, your difference. At times I honestly believe that writing has this power to make myself understood, explained and recognized. Maybe then I can step away from the moment and admire it even better by putting it into writing. But writing is also so intensely private I am of late caught in this dilemma, and have a difficulty in writing. But it is more than a difficulty it strikes at the heart of my desire to write, to share. I find myself at a loss of words and bankrupt of my desire to share. Perhaps every person who has even written anything understands what I mean when you feel that there is a blank curtain in your mind and you are desperate (whatever your situation) to try and excavate those words and to put your sentiments into some tangible form and then once and for all exorcise it. Be it to answer an examination question or to find an answer to a deep thought which has been disturbing you. Something has been bugging me. And I know what it is, I just can't bring myself to share it. Perhaps it is a selfish desire to withhold. But writing demands it of you to let go and to be shameless in putting on paper everything--uncensored. Censorship is the enemy of the desire to write. And self censorship doubly so. I never understood diaries very much. For me, at least, writing is clearly a form of expression and it stems from wanting to be read--which explains the attraction of blogging for me. I write because I want to be read, not only by myself at a later date but by some others, someone who has radically different thoughts and understanding of the world. To me, that is the only sane reason for writing--is knowing that you are unique, what you write, think is unique and in the same manner the reader who would approach what you write with his/her own understanding and may disagree with you, is, unique. Nevertheless the belief that at the bottom of it all that we can share and for a moment bridge a divide.
But then this also calls for faith, for a belief that you will in all goodness agree to at least attempt to understand what I am trying to write, and when I find that what I am about to write or desire to write might not receive this kind of attempt at understanding, I find that I freeze. I wonder if a dancer, an artist ever have this fear of being misunderstood. No, I correct myself, it is not the fear of misunderstanding, it is fear that this bridge which takes faith to build and cross might become conceptually corrupted. By that I mean that I am afraid, that the foundation upon which I write will be destroyed, that instead of bridging a divide, I am emphasizing that distance and that fall in between. Writing, in my opinion, does not handle misunderstanding or open interpretation as well as some other art form or dance or music. I write in hope that I will be understood, and perhaps that is my limitation as a writer? I can't quite explain this--which only points once again to my struggle to explain and make clear my thoughts. But there is a tug of war going on here between a desire to be honest and making writing a vehicle at bringing about a kind of wholeness and integrity to our lives, thoughts, and actions, and the desire to be understood and to make bonds between the writer and the readers. Because there is a tension in my desire to write, it seeks both to try to reach out and to alienate. It yearns to be understood but it fears a rejection, it wants to share but it holds back, it tries to explain but desires to remain enigmatic at some level. Perhaps being able to write honestly and not fear a backlash or an inversion of your original desire or to withold is so difficult that we all need fiction as a form of outlet. I can create an other world where I can then set the rules, and appeal to your imagination which is definitely more empathetic and sympathetic than your cold hard logic. That is why gay erotica might be easier to read than the real sentiments as put on paper by homosexual men. We are much more forgiving in the sphere of the imagined than when words are used to hold a mirror in front of our faces and we are forced to confront our demons. And sometimes writing is to dance with those demons and you are always trying to choose between hiding them and exhibiting them, revealing or concealing them all the while knowing that they can never be slain.
