Meta-Writing

           

I want to be a writer more than anything. I want to prove to myself and maybe everyone else that the voice in my head has something worthwhile to say. Some days I think it does, at least, until I look back and read the jumbled mess that I dumped so carelessly on the page. I don’t understand how the greats weave such beauty, such intricate life out of letters built into words strung into sentences. It starts out as such silent nothing, and some people have an amazing capacity to pull a voice out of the thoughts and experiences most people discard—a process akin to the building of Frankenstein’s monster from a grim assemblage of lifeless body parts. Where did Shelley get the electricity to bring Frankenstein to life? I want that life-giving creativity; it must bring you close to God, to create life where there was emptiness and void.

How do you know if your thoughts even matter? I mean, what makes one person’s inner world so much more interesting than anyone else’s? Maybe it’s in how you tell the story. You don’t have to be interesting to begin with, but you have to know how to keep attention. You need charisma. You need to seem interesting. I have never been a good storyteller. I used to write short stories as a kid in elementary school, but I would get bored with the plot long before anyone else got the chance to fall asleep to my words.

But damn it, I want to write. That emptiness and void engulfs me, and all I want is to fill it so tight with new life that it has no room to swallow me anymore. When I feel so alone that my heart is tired of beating, I want to be surrounded by these people I’ve created. And I will know that they see every part of me as I do them, and there is no love lost between us; there is no fear, because we know each other.

Like when I read a book or watch a movie or a series on television, I involve myself in the lives of the characters. Sometimes, I think it can be unhealthy, because I use it to escape figuring out my own life. Why would I if I can live through them? Other times, healthy or not, it gives me hope. Their stories, though often unrealistic and unbelievable, make me believe that when I do decide to exit this shell I’ve created for myself here in my head, when I am ready to face all the anxiety that living creates, then I might find someone who understands me. And maybe someone like me might not be too damaged and crazy to be loved.

For now, these characters, these stories, they save me, because I’m not ready to be real yet. And even though all my psychological training tells me it isn’t healthy to live in an imaginary world, I’m certain most people do it in one way or the other. What if I could create that world for someone, a safe place to prepare to be real? All anyone really wants is the ability to be real and be safe at the same time. I don’t know if that is possible, but the closest I’ve ever come to such an achievement is through the stories I read and watch and hear. Could I help someone get that close?

I want you, whoever you are, to be safe for now, and I know that one day you will be real, and I will be real. And even though being safe and real may not be possible to be at the same time, we both know where safety is—behind colorful cardboard binding, between dots of ink, at the end of someone’s diary disguised as a work of fiction. You know why this is safe? Because someone decided to be real with letters built into words strung into sentences. When someone else is real and let’s us in on it, it makes us feel real, even if we aren’t ready to prove it.