Sometimes I wish there were a way I could take what I’m feeling and put them in words without actually writing the words. As if something is lost during the transition between the voices inside my head and the voice of my mind when reading the words on the page. The boundaries of language are too restricting for the audience to truly appreciate everything that is said. In a sense, we are all alone.
Good writers just know a little better how to get close… to push against the edge of an elastic box hard enough to where other’s can hear some of what they’re saying. But even a great writer can’t come anywhere close to manufacturing true feelings.
True meaning is left up to the audience. You must use your past experiences and your way of seeing the world to fill in the gaps. And when you do that, the whole flavor of the work changes. The words become deeply personal, each individual having a slightly different experience. Relationships, forming and destroyed, based on somebody else’s misinterpreted pleas to be heard.
And she who penned the words waits as the world evaluates the text to see if it resonates with enough people. Over and over again, she holds her breathe to see if people understand her. Maybe this time she won’t be alone. Maybe this time she’ll write the perfect series of words and somebody, somewhere, will truly understand her meaning in this.
But writing is, when you get right down to it, a selfless act. You write to help others get through the good and bad times. And this writer’s disparity is the hero of the story, not the villain. For if the message of a work is restrained to the author’s imagination, the world would be a miserable place indeed.