Writing

Writing is too difficult sometimes. I’ve been trying to “blog” consistently, but constantly find myself lost in topics and words. I can’t put words together as perfect as I would like. Ideally, the topic would build upon itself with a collection of unique points connected by the thesis, which is the overarching theme that ties the beginning to the end. Almost, poetic, this circular edifice must be entrenched in each paragraph, each sentence, and each word. The reader should know their destination and should be comforted that they will reach this destination through the journey. Alas, this standard is very difficult to meet. Too often, I find myself creating a topic and abandoning it half way through. She will never be whole and will likely be forgotten. I suppose, sadly, it’s easier that way. But, despite my encumbrance as a writer, I find solitude in the attempts to understand why it is difficult to overcome the so-called “writer’s block.” And through that pinhole of light, I can find myself as a writer and do as all writers should do—write. However, it is not easy and never will nor should be.

My disease as a writer is incurable. I will never feel like I’ve met the potential that a written piece deserves. I wrote a lot of papers during college, but never finished them how I would have liked; they were all half written and missing perfection. There is always a better word that could complement the sentence, or a better sentence that could complement the paragraph, or a better paragraph that could complement the entire piece. And with every change alters the end product. My papers are in constant state of alteration. There is no end or simplicity—but there is a reason. I am a product of our culture’s idioms. This is true in many more ways than just writing. We all know and understand why we value spelling and grammar; it’s a core value of linguistics and will likely forever remain so. But is this good? Should we value something that plagues those who desire to put words on paper? As much pain as writing has wrought at my expense, I wouldn’t have it another way. I wouldn’t take away the lost sleep or late nights trying to implement the final touches to a work in progress. Those memories are important to my development and growth. And from that experience, I can finally see and believe I am a writer.

Tradition hinders change and, in terms of linguistics, change is slow and not met without resistance. I don’t think this is a bad or good, but a mixture of both. Without tradition, we cannot build a foundation and without a foundation, chaos rules. But without change, progress becomes a mere peripheral and never a goal. The whole process would then become static and archaic. Therefore, tradition and change are linguistics’ necessary duality to ensure relevance to modern idioms. Thus, we have our critics and neo-writers. The critics are those who uphold tradition and core values. They do not challenge or create, but, rather, sustain. On the other hand, the neo-writers are those who challenge tradition and core values. They break rules and create new ones. From the battle between tradition and change, modern linguistic values are born. Spelling, grammar, and consistency are among the common values associated with our culture’s written style. They make writing and becoming a writer difficult.

I do believe anybody has the ability to write successfully, but they must earn the ability to be considered a successful writer. In high school, I played the trumpet. Or more correctly, I made sound with my trumpet. This does not make me a musician by any definition. I never struggled or progressed past my shortcomings. I needed to have the pain of feeling inadequate. So, does one simply have to put words onto paper to become a writer? Tradition would say no; being published isn’t a right, but a privilege and one must adhere and excel to be considered a quality writer. I have never been published, but I would wager that those who have didn’t simply write nonsense on paper. They struggled for many years trying to improve and make sense of ‘modern’ styles, while still trying to maintain individuality. Change, on the other hand, would say yes; anyone can be a writer, regardless of quality of style. Being published isn’t the requirement for successfully producing a piece of work. Writing for the sake of writing can be enough. Any blogger would make that argument. People don’t have to listen for you to write words successfully. I suppose, on an individual level, these are both fair arguments. And when juxtaposed, we learn that neither is right or wrong. I will never be placed on the same level as, say, J.R.R. Tolken or for that matter, be published, but that doesn’t mean I am a bad writer or not a writer at all. I’ve worked at writing and am proud of that. I’ve earned the ability to be considered a writer, just as those who play instruments successfully have earned the ability to be musicians. Through tradition, I have learned the ability to manipulate words into sentences and to give those sentences substance. It isn’t a rare thing to be a writer, but those who consider themselves know one thing—it isn’t easy. Criticism knocks at the door of every paper, but delivers that necessary struggle for success. Creativity is difficult, but all the more rewarding when it works. And when it doesn’t, we must learn from our mistakes. We can and should continually alter our words in pursuit of perfection. I will never by happy after the “completion” of a piece of work, but that’s the point.

The Houses of History

How do I reach the past?

Concrete and real, antiquity existed beyond
Abstract creation, beyond the historian’s
Pen. Our mind’s movie, now an overarching
Lens, sees through eyes
In the back of our heads:
A forest deep rooted, its trees enclosed and
Embellished with bark—
Hercules grew stronger with time.

Above the trees, clouds take shape of figures once told,
Their stories formed from winds
That passed through lungs, then lips—
Spoken shadows block the sun.

For leaves and clouds are eyelids to omniscience.
The glowing truth of Hercules is now
A myth, weakened by historical science, which holds
Ideals of empiricism and Descartes’ indubitable truth.
What vague discoveries will tomorrow bring?
Will Hercules’ be strong again?

I ask, once more,
How do I reach the past?

The Murder of Joan of Arc

Joan of Arc burned alive at Rouen,
A witch by fifteenth century standards.
She melted to ashes and washed away
A scattered Relic of the Seine
She became the icon all rewrite
And claim as their own.

And I wrote of her story, discovering
Her manufactured likeness as a monarchist,
Clad in armor and bearing a sword, fighting
For France and her freedom.

And discovering her femininity as a beacon of
Hope in a world crumbling all around—
Dressed in white, she looks to the sky,
While France becomes a submissive
Collaborator.

We know nothing of what Joan looked like,
But her image is so clear. I wrote of her
Militancy and femininity as a plain
Function to her success; discovering her ambiguous guise,
That is Joan—an ecotype for all.

And yet, I failed to meet her standard of
Devotion--the hallmark of sanctification.
From flames, Joan, O Joan, you rose
A valuable commodity, but even that I
Can not obtain. I rewrote you,

And so, I submit to the expert’s pen,
A tradition soaked in standard and
Garnished in gold—a program
Guarded by stone walls fit for a king.
From outside the gate, I see the courtyard,
Where jesters and clowns juggle
Dictionaries and fine wines. My view
Obscured by bars, I reach into my pocket for
The key, and let myself in.

Now, together, we write of her story, her transgressions
And objectively restate the facts, while
Dismissing the story. Joan, dead on the page
While educators’ rehearse her prose in order:
I wrote: Joan of Domremy, a peasant of seventeen,
Appeared in written documentation,
Only three years during her life. Joan
The disobedient, died a lapsed heretic,
And rose a servant to God—beatified
In 1908, sanctified in 1925.
Joan died on May 30, 1431, age twenty.

For these words I sold my soul,
Everything is in vain—it’s too late
Joan, O Joan, I killed you with my pen
And buried you under the title page.