I find it ironic that, for all my talk of experience embodied in literature, my thoughts often seem to elude expression. Why do I so frequently feel that I cannot write what I’m thinking? Perhaps because, remaining unsaid, an idea exist only in its potential form. The nebulous is always, in a sense, beautiful; the sharply defined is open to criticism. Or maybe I’m simply acknowledging the struggle we all have to match internal to external–and to find words that feel like our own when it seems it’s all been said.
In my more grandiose moments, I liken this struggle to the strivings of Faustus or Frankenstein. The obsession with understanding and creation that goes into writing of any kind, and especially the personal and/or creative, seems to me to spring from the same impulse of which those two characters are extreme examples. We all wish for mastery, sometimes to the point of (self-)destruction. It’s easy to see the lure of such deep investment; it simplifies and gives a sense of purpose.
Contrary to the evidence of my infrequent writing on this blog, I have found myself obsessively absorbed in certain projects, especially my undergraduate thesis on Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill. And in the words of Supernatural‘s Dean Winchester, it felt pure. (For the record, Dean was referring to Purgatory, which may be indicative of my belief that a certain amount of masochism is inherent in intense devotion to any project.) In those times of deeply engaged research and writing, I felt justified in shedding other concerns–like Frankenstein, “I wished, as it were, to procrastinate all that related to my feelings of affection [or inadequacy, anxiety, etc.] until the great object, which swallowed up every habit of my nature, should be completed.” Of course, it was never quite that easy–life has a way of asserting itself, and even “impersonal” writing inevitably becomes very personal indeed if you keep at it long enough. What happens when I acknowledge that I am both writing to get away from myself and writing as myself?