Writing Intentions

“Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write. This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple “I must,” then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your whole life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse.” -Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet

I imagine myself to be a writer, and when I do, I imagine what I will write. I read books and think about how I will gather the wisdom inside them, and write about how they made me think. For years, I have stacked books filled with sticky bookmarks, planning to write about them. Instead, they remain shelved, never to be reopened, no matter how much I plan to revisit my notes.

I imagine myself to be a writer, and when I do, I imagine many things. I take notes of my ideas and reflect upon my own thoughts. These notes gather on my phone, in notebooks and journals, and I put them together in documents. Few see their way through to expansion, completion, and publication.

I imagine myself to be a writer, and I tell people that I am a writer. They ask what I write about, and I alter the pitch according to the occasion. Some people learn that I grew up fundamentalist, and I’m unpacking my past. Others learn only that I write about how my perspective has changed throughout my life. It depends on how much I feel like revealing, discussing, and exposing myself.

I imagine myself to be a writer with everything I do, perceiving my experiences in the words I might use to describe them. I used to publish a blog post every day, and the queue was full of what I had scheduled to go online. At some point, I realized my every thought was about how I might write. It made it difficult to live in the moment for myself, without thinking about what I would type next.

So I stopped fantasizing about being a writer all the time. I learned to meditate and to be mindful. I learned that each present experience is passing, and change is a constant. I learned to think thoughts that did not need to be shared. It was difficult to unlearn this habit of imagining myself to be a writer.

Now, when people ask about my occupation, I include writing, but it is not the primary force of my internal world. As a result, I write less. There was a time when I put writing down long enough to consider whether I would ever return to it. I found that, as Rainer Maria Rilke said, I could not stand to not write.

Writing is no longer the essence of my mental experience. I am not constantly thinking about how to turn my thoughts and ideas into essays. Yet I have not entirely stopped writing. I can choose to write, or not to write. This is a matter of balance, and sometimes I teeter toward one or another focus.

There are many things I want to write about. Not everything will come to fruition.

I once attended the funeral of a writer. One of the speakers at that funeral said that in her last days, she was talking about the many projects she still wanted to finish. I contended with my own mortality in that moment, realizing this is the fate of all creative people. We imagine so much more than that for which we have time, energy, resources, and life itself.

I imagine myself to be a writer, and rarely look back on what I have already written. It is never enough. It is never enough! Just as my feelings are bigger than my body, my appetite for thoughtful analysis and curious study is beyond what a single lifetime can contain.

Today, the spaces between my blog posts are arbitrary. My voice is one among many on a crowded web. Logging on to social media sites feels like walking into a crowded room of screaming people, all desperate to be heard over the others. I wonder whether it is worthwhile to add to the cacophony. I wonder what can be said that isn’t being said in different ways by different people in different places. I wonder what the point is. I keep trying anyway.

When I imagine myself to be a writer, I know I’m not alone among people who are doing the same. We tell ourselves we are writers. We write to ourselves and we write to others. It is a fight with our own limitations as mortals. A line from a song lingers in my mind: “I see so many kids that love being writers more than they love writing.”

It makes me wonder if that is true of me. Then I remember that I’ve written thousands more pages than those I’ve seen fit to publish. Writing itself is a way to sort out my thoughts and feelings. After much contemplation and effort, I can say that I love writing more than being a writer. I know this because it was a fight to unlearn the habit of imagining myself to be a writer.