I have always been compelled by narrative. The various accounts of connected events compiled together in unique and creative ways, it was, from what I can remember, one of my first experiences in life of encountering something that moved me so intensely, from the deepest parts of my being. Applying a narrative to my life made things much more bearable and interesting. Stories and fairytales would feed my imagination, ignite my interests, fulfill my fantasies, and condone my endless obsessions and fixations. I would give context to all of my possessions, tell myself where they came from, who they were, where they would go, and where they wanted to go. If there was no story, it did not interest me. It was pointless. When my mother, grandmother, or nanny tried to put me to sleep, I preferred to tell the bedtime stories. These improvised tales would often start with “Once upon a time there was a beautiful girl…,” disorder and disruption would follow, twists in the plot would pursue, along with whatever else came to my mind in that moment, staring at the shadowy, dark ceiling from bed. What I recall being most challenging about this endless need for a story, that never ending game of trying to feed the bottomless void with narrative, was trying to find an ending. One that felt sufficient. It was difficult because I was searching for a meaning, one that would click in my mind. I wanted the story to continue to grow, develop into something new and unprecedented, defy my expectations and create a life of its own. The makeshift endings and premature conclusions I could come up with at that age did not accomplish this need of course. This difficulty of placing an ending, fining meaning, is perhaps a greater struggle. The purely human struggle of placing narrative on life. Attempting to find the start, the end, resolutions to conflicts, lessons in the hardship, the morals of the stories. The search for meaning is endless, and perhaps that is why we write.
Or at least that is why I do.
My fascination with narrative, often fictional, as a child was an expression of myself. In the stories I told, and in the stories I read or heard that compelled me, became a part of who I was. The line between me and the story was blurred. Whether that be in the form of me dressed as a character for months, dragging myself across the floor in a makeshift mermaid tail out of blankets, refusing to walk, determined to not break the act until a new fixation came along and took me. Which ended up being an eight-foot crocheted string tied to my head for all of third grade to resemble my endless majestic hair. Or it be in the stories I told being more about me than just any typical damsel in distress. My presence in the stories, and the stories presence in me, is one of the first cases in life I can recall the important role writing played in my own understanding of the world, and of myself. The influence of the writer on the writing and the writing on the writer is undeniable. The relationship between the two is so intense. It is beautiful and romantic, harrowing, and vulnerable. That is why I write, to understand who I am, and what I am thinking.
Sometimes it is the mere act of putting words on a page that can make things make sense. Thoughts and ideas can be mystifying and mischievous, alluring, and dangerous. Floating around in every enchanting burrow and curious tunnel of the mind. It can be intoxicating. Putting them down on a piece of paper excavates them from the mystery. You can see things in stark clarity, face them for what they are. Like the calm after the storm, the clouds to pass from our judgments. Writing it down helps in slowing down the incessant thoughts, planting your feet on the ground, find reasoning, understand what is really happening and what we think about it. However, it can go both ways. Sometimes, things, when written down can flourish in their complexity, produce and strengthen a mysterious quality. Things that are mundane, seemingly inconsequential, can be the gateway to something deeper. It is almost like fishing. I carry a notebook with me in my purse, because there are billions of little fish floating around all the time. Carrying a notebook allows me to catch some at the surface. I write them down, no matter how small, how insignificant. It may have been something I overheard someone say on the subway on a hot and rainy summer night. The lyrics of a Bobby Vinton song playing on the jukebox at the bar, playing during the exact moment the sleazy guy in the musky cologne, overpowering the smell of tobacco and cigarette smoke in the air, asked the blonde girl in the crepe de chine dress for a light. Or the particular patterns of the waves, as they rise and fall, progressing to new, inconceivable heights each time as they come crashing down, until they plateau, begin to diminish, but only temporarily, in preparation for their next act. Maybe it means nothing, but it could also mean something. It could be a piece in a larger puzzle. What matters is that my bait is in the water. By taking note of these small moments, moments that would vanish from memory if I didn’t write it down right away, I am expanding my awareness and openness. Inviting more ideas, attracting more mystery. Then bigger fish will start to appear, bigger ideas, richer in their contents. You continue to fish, deeper and deeper into the water, and ideas start to come from underneath the surface. You start fishing from the deepest and darkest parts of the mind, towards the subconscious. You start to hear songs that you have heard a million times before sound like the first. You start to see new colors in the blending and mixing of other colors. You experience profound sensations, undergo immense realizations. What you find may be beautiful. What you find may be terrifying. You may find something that has been hiding in plain sight the entire time. You may find that you didn’t actually know what you thought you knew the entire time. These ideas are like food for the imagination, and nourishing it is what allows it to continue to grow. That is why I will keep on fishing, continue to write things down.
When I write, I find endless contradictions. I undergo the persistent breaking down of my opinions, raising challenges to all of my beliefs, finding the flaws in any story I have ever told. I have thought I believed something so strongly, and once I had written it down, been taken out of the spell of my own limited thinking. By writing it down, I notice the holes in my logic, my self contradictions. I am able to see what I was trying to convince myself of. Trying so hard to make something true, when the very presence of my doubts is already enough evidence of the untruth. The flaws, however, are a necessary step to overcoming. The shedding of opinions is essential to creating new ones. My contradictions allow me to create more contradictions. It is a constant cycle of understanding what I am thinking, learning and changing from those previous thoughts, forming new beliefs, breaking down those beliefs, and contradict myself all over again. It is a brutal act, but one that promotes growth and a deeper understanding, and that is why I continue to do it.
Writing is a selfish act. It is a voice shouting, begging for someone to listen. Not only listen but be willing enough to change for them, to accept and adapt to their position. It is a visceral projection of the writer’s perspective and perceptions. One that requires some sort of accountability. This act of aggression, out of self-interest, has proven valuable. As someone who lives a fairly passive life, keeps her smile and stays mostly quiet, I have tendency to avoid conflict. I am aware of my size in the world, my mere insignificance. I was raised on ideas of predetermination, to believe everything happens for a reason. As if it were written in a script. I believe that thoughts exist themselves in the universe, that it is mere chance that I find them. I believe that time unfolds itself. I am, however, playing a part in that script, if there is one. The interaction between the thoughts and I is important, our ability to find and influence one another in the vastness of the universe is remarkable. Time may unfold itself, but it does not do so without my contributions. Whether or not I am aware of it, I am willing and contributing to the unfolding of time. No matter how humanly selfish it may be to hope for my significance as an individual, it is important for me to write. If not for anything, then as a way to assert my dominance in the fleeting world. Because in the endless search for meaning, it would be nice to believe that in my short time here, that I am here for a reason, that there is greater purpose.