“the writer’s view” june 18, 1991 11:21 am
to write from the whole being the writer can not capture the true essence of what it is he is trying to communicate. writing is that of fragments each unto its own universe. the fragments develop in his mind in order to reach and discover his world, his voice and provide a path of travel. it is not important to know the absolute direction of that or those paths he writes to, of, or from. he begins in darkness, chaos; his emotions, ideas, experiences carry him to a destination, many times more than not, to an unknown place, “deep, fathomless, and indefinable.” he becomes the inner and the outer world, turning his voyage inside out, upside down, sideways and produces whatever it takes to bring his thoughts into view, his view. the writings are the diggings of archeological findings that he chooses to invent from the past and the future. there is, most of the time, no goal, just words that formulate themselves from his mind and the deepest of self. the deeper he digs, the fragments become his dream, his faith, his voice. most of the time dead ends; he fragmentizes so much that confusion takes the place of reality; and in turn he spends much time thinking and regrouping the words that appear in front of him. at times he must separate himself from his writing so that it stands alone and as not to reflect his own manhood.
failure as a writer is not necessarily the failure of the man, but time, maturity and discipline is what makes thoughts vibrant, fertile and riveting. the writer is the man; the man is the writer, inseparable at times, but to be on the edge, to face head on the unknown and wrestle with it; both the man and the writer are placed on hold and faith. it seems apparent the loss of what one loves so deeply, profusely, and profoundly permeates his world, forcing him to the boundless horizons of self expression. expression from what he has loved so, given up, and separated himself from. he writes from the edges and in turn is the outsider, looking in, towards the dark of day and night trying to establish his authenticity, to learn, realize more, make less from confusion, to articulate, analyze, synthesize all at the same time. to make time, that seems motionless, move once again and not stand still, thus making the waves foam as they pound the shores of his mind. his mind can only attempt to go forward by taking the steps backward, up, down, sideways, over, under or the progress is not realized. often, more than not, he writes of what he does not understand, that in hope, with gained knowledge the words and thoughts will become more clear and define those illusions. sometimes it is the decaying of those illusions that give them growth/life. it is the dismantling, the erosion, of those illusions that drive the writer to his maybe freedom. writing is most definitely not an escape into or out of reality of everyday life: it is the deeper side of the writer who is trying to be reborn, renewed, refreshed where the waters are black, deep cold and numbing in the sterility of the darkness which leads to his freedom. it is at times, again more than not, awkward, the paralyzing fear of being tongue-tied, naked, unsheltered and bare boned that handicaps him with apprehensiveness in waters of strong current where life preservers are non-existent. his words are daring; for if not, why proceed…his mysteriousness is what keeps him alive, not talent, not technique, not education……he creates from with-in his own daring ; no support, no life-line; writes, he just does, from his dreams, frustrations, desires and gut reactions surrounded by fields of anxiety.
