All of the writing I do withers into the ether, because it does not seem to contribute to a greater whole.
No, I know it must.
But the whole in question is invisible, intangible. I imagine that every word I write goes off into the Universe, that its true purpose is beyond anything I could ever understand.
“All of writing is a huge lake. There are great rivers that feed the lake, like Tolstoy or Dostoyevsky. And then there are mere trickles, like Jean Rhys. All that matters is feeding the lake. I don't matter. The lake matters. You must keep feeding the lake.” — Jean Rhys
But in this realm, the one in which I want to call myself a Writer, there is no material project to present to the world. I just have endless thoughts and scribblings and ruminations. I cannot see any of it clearly.
So while I’m busy throwing out pages and pages of writing, I tell myself that I never write, though I am writing I am writing I am writing (this is the proof, if it’s needed). I want to find the perfect pieces to present as Finished and readable, to convey some purposeful meaning. But perhaps the meaning is here somewhere, in the entanglement of words that I can’t make sense of.
My obsessiveness is blinding. My granularity is destabilizing.
I cannot see myself, that’s all there is to say about it. I cannot see my Self as I am, but maybe no one can.
And maybe this is what I should be sharing, what I should be presenting to you here. While I’m busy trying and failing to create perfection, to write something that I’m not writing, I’m wasting the true core of my thoughts, treating this sort of output as inferior to something more practical—as if I care about practicality, as if I promised Value.
What do I think I should be writing instead? What do I think is more important or revelatory than this? If this is the truth that moves through my brain, through the dark matter of the Universe, why is it not meaningful enough for a corner of the Internet?
Of course I believe that writing about my Self or my thoughts or my experiences or my obsessions feels unimportant, navel-gazing, self-centered. But isn’t that what I love to read too? Don’t I just want to bathe in other peoples’ thoughts and perceptions?
I have nothing to offer but this—but this could be something. There is no finality to my thoughts and they don’t package neatly. While I try to “finish” something, I am ignoring what is already here. Maybe this, maybe this. Maybe none of it makes enough sense to be interesting, but I write and this is what I write.
Thanks for reading today’s issue of Empty Head. I struggle to know what I should be writing here, so I am trying to just allow myself to write what I write and let that be good enough! I’d like to sprinkle in some of whatever this is between my Open Tabs and book reviews. Subscribe if you’d like!