If I fired up my blog software and wrote with no
editing, do you know what would come out?
Comedy and Horror.
Rabbits. Funny little bunnies running every which
way. Hundreds of them. Little cuties that would wear you out. You would run in
circles for awhile, trying to catch them, and then you'd fall down laughing and
exhausted.
Idea creatures would rise up at your feet,
snarling and swiping the air before falling back, half formed, their terrible
growth arrested by my lack of attention. They would lurch through the bunny
races, frightening everyone and slowly losing whatever…I…was going to…
And I would be angry. Very angry. My mouth would
be a furnace door, and I would open it and blast the heat of my anger across
the face of creation. Which is strange because as far as I can tell, I have no
good reason to be angry. But I do get very angry sometimes.
And if I wrote without editing
It.
Would.
Beeeeee.
Sooooooooo.
Looooooooooong.
So long. Oh, God make it stop. You would chew your
own leg off if I would just stop, but I go on and on and on and on, way past the
point where I made a point and should have stopped but didn’t of course. Oh, so
long that it just hurts.
The truth is - the real truth now - I’m ashamed of
my scattered and unorganized little mind, and my horribble spelling, and the way
facts and names disappear at the worst moments. I don’t have very many pegs in
my head, I guess. Certainly not enough pegs to hang everything that needs
hanging. Somehow my mind doesn't have pegs, but it has a lot of thoughts, so
these thoughts just float around in there. I can't find my file allocation
table. My mind is like RAM memory. It's fast, but there is no easy way to find
out exactly what's in there. I’m so obsessively tied to my
thesaurus and my dictionary and Google. I have special links on my desktop so I
can get to them as quickly as possible. Otherwise I would be lost and stupid.
So I craft and polish and fuss and powder my nose.
I don't want you to see me without my makeup. And I don't want you dropping by
unannounced either. I want time to cage the bunnies and slay the monsters and
kick out the salesmen and check the facts and cut, cut, cut, cut, so it won’t be
too long.
And where am I in this whole process? Where am I?
The real me? I don't know. Sometimes I think the better the essay, the farther
away from you I am. Every minute I spend polishing adds another layer of
separation between us. My writing is a smooth surface, a shiny lacquered hood
under which I hide my shame.
But relationship is constantly working its way
through my armor, like a little plant that somehow cracks open the sidewalk.
Through some miracle, the truth about me comes out. I am seen. I am known.
Things I never intended to reveal make their way to the surface. Writing is very
dangerous this way.
And then you comment and send emails and your
names form themselves out of the swirling mass I call "the readers". We come to
know each other, some of us. At least a little.
Somehow, as always, relationship finds a way.

rlp