― J.D. Salinger, Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters & Seymour: An Introduction
Sometimes I want to create something beautiful so badly that I feel as though I could combust.
I used to be a voracious reader, and I used to write. I’m still a reader, but don't really claim to be a writer.
There was a time when I thought about being an editor for a living, an author on the side. So I majored in English. I changed my major to food science in a matter of months though for a number of reasons. One of them was because in order to be great as an author, you must be creative and original and vulnerable, and there is nothing scarier than having to be creative and original and vulnerable. Vulnerable in every way, because writing great research papers doesn’t get you anywhere after college. Vulnerable because you will always fear that you are not creative, not original, that you are merely mimicking, and thus mocking, the sacred act of creation. Vulnerable because authenticity can be sold, because true art always requires sacrifice of some sort, because it’s quite possible that your soul’s birthright, your heart’s child, your life’s work, may one day be stored in an attic or an empty barn, and that is that.
I couldn’t do it. I stopped writing (you know, besides the mandatory writing), save for the occasional half-hearted attempt that would quickly fizzle out.
I haven’t written anything that I’m truly proud of in a long time. In all actuality, I don’t know if I ever have. I have tried, but I can’t do it, or at least, I can’t do it yet. It all seems trivial, trite, sensationalized, contrived.
It’s sad because I love words like I love few other things, and I read them, and live them, and breathe them; I am moved by them, touched by them, caressed by them, and I still haven’t figured out how to put them together to say something that truly means something, anything. To say something that hasn’t been said before, to say something "really and truly after [my] own heart" and nobody else’s.
Sometimes, I just want to create something beautiful.
I want the stars to come out, and I want to see them for what they are. I want to be kept up till five, even if nobody else is. I want to paint them, read them, sculpt them, draw them, relish them, sing them, dance them, write them—
Just so long as I capture them. Just so long as they last. Just so long as they exist for one beautiful moment after dawn—and if they are consigned to the barns and attics of the world after that, so be it.
I should like to accomplish that at least once.
I used to be a voracious reader, and I used to write. I’m still a reader, but don't really claim to be a writer.
There was a time when I thought about being an editor for a living, an author on the side. So I majored in English. I changed my major to food science in a matter of months though for a number of reasons. One of them was because in order to be great as an author, you must be creative and original and vulnerable, and there is nothing scarier than having to be creative and original and vulnerable. Vulnerable in every way, because writing great research papers doesn’t get you anywhere after college. Vulnerable because you will always fear that you are not creative, not original, that you are merely mimicking, and thus mocking, the sacred act of creation. Vulnerable because authenticity can be sold, because true art always requires sacrifice of some sort, because it’s quite possible that your soul’s birthright, your heart’s child, your life’s work, may one day be stored in an attic or an empty barn, and that is that.
I couldn’t do it. I stopped writing (you know, besides the mandatory writing), save for the occasional half-hearted attempt that would quickly fizzle out.
I haven’t written anything that I’m truly proud of in a long time. In all actuality, I don’t know if I ever have. I have tried, but I can’t do it, or at least, I can’t do it yet. It all seems trivial, trite, sensationalized, contrived.
It’s sad because I love words like I love few other things, and I read them, and live them, and breathe them; I am moved by them, touched by them, caressed by them, and I still haven’t figured out how to put them together to say something that truly means something, anything. To say something that hasn’t been said before, to say something "really and truly after [my] own heart" and nobody else’s.
Sometimes, I just want to create something beautiful.
I want the stars to come out, and I want to see them for what they are. I want to be kept up till five, even if nobody else is. I want to paint them, read them, sculpt them, draw them, relish them, sing them, dance them, write them—
Just so long as I capture them. Just so long as they last. Just so long as they exist for one beautiful moment after dawn—and if they are consigned to the barns and attics of the world after that, so be it.
I should like to accomplish that at least once.
Well, you did it! You explained the essence of why I've personally set out to write a beautiful story, but always stopped short. But you've written it so carefully, and with a voice that must be accompanied by more utterance. This post reminded me that it's simple, delicate, and ordinary truths that resound so beautifully in words :)
ReplyDeleteThanks, Sean! I've always admired your writing. I look forward to someday reading that beautiful story you've set out to write!
DeleteEmily,
DeleteWhich country are from and when are you going to Zambia? I have asked because I also visit zambia quite often.
Perry