I wasn't really sure what I wanted to call this post or what I wanted it to be about
either. So, I called this post nothing and pretended this was nothing while I filled the space with words.
Writing the past few days, I got to thinking about fiction. Sometimes, it's funny and other times it's more fickle than I'd like. But if there's one thing I've always known about fiction, it's that it's not always as much of a lie as we'd like to think.
Reading some of my own fiction, there are times I have to stop and pretend I don't see myself on the page. Seeing myself there is scary sometimes. Revealing too much can be scary too. And as exciting and rewarding and truly beautiful as writing is, sometimes it's just plain terrifying.
I think there's something to be said about the fact that one word after another creates an entire story and in that, entire people populate worlds that may live for years inside one person. And those people share those worlds hoping that maybe their characters will be understood and I guess, somewhere down the line, maybe they're hoping that they'll be understood too. Because otherwise what's the point of becoming a writer?
What's the point of guarding yourself against the real world to exist inside imaginary places? What's the point of feeling everything so deeply if not to impart that hurt or that miraculous moment that is more beautiful than any tangible thing? What's the point of it all without the chance to share it with others?
I guess this is kind of like thinking about first impressions. What's the point of forming relationships and loving people if we keep that first moment as our only memory? What's the point of letting people embed themselves in our lives if we aren't willing to actually know them? I guess the same can be said for books or authors or characaters or anything for that matter.
Upon first writing, I'd like to say that my stories are fiction. But I suppose if I spend more time living in them I can see a moment from the past I'd thought I'd forgotten. I can see the things that give structure to worlds that might crumble without the realness of life.
I think we sacrafice the beauty of writing if we don't let it inhabit some part of us. If we don't live in the words that flow from us, I don't think they can ever be what they need to be. Words and stories are just as fragile as hearts and people. We need to give them the support of ourselves to let them be whole.
I guess this isn't exactly nothing. Sometimes the idea of empty spaces, of galaxies far and wide, of black holes and ocean waves and blank pages can feel like nothing and in that thought, can consume all of us; writer and reader and the keepers of other things. But maybe if we fill ourselves with hope or light or belief then we can fill the idea of nothing with the possibility of everything.