Act

"Writing is wonderful when you talk about it. It's fun to contemplate. But writing as a daily physical activity is not agreeable. You put on weight, you strain your gut, you get gout and chilblains. You're alone, and every day you have to face a blank piece of paper."
-Norman Mailer, The Spooky Art

This quote really resonates with me. Writing is one of the hardest things I do on a regular basis. Medical school is intimidating. But writing - it terrifies and seduces me at the same time. No one tells writers what to write about. But with that freedom comes an intense fear, self-questioning, isolation. Staring at a blank page, I've never felt more alone. Reading a piece of work to a new audience, I've never felt more scared. Even publishing a poem to this blog comes with a measure of apprehension.

Why write? I find that, like most writers, I simply cannot avoid it. Not writing would be a blessing; I'd have more time, friends, self-confidence. But there is an itch; I see a story, recognize a relationship, discover a metaphor, explore a character, stumble upon a mystery, and I need to explore it. I have no other great talents and so I fall back on the simplest building block, the word. Language fascinates me. The ability to convey so much, to impress upon another the experience of one's consciousness simply through words - that passion drives me. I recognize story and poetry as an art form in a way that other forms fail me. I like paintings. But that's all they are to me; I don't have that finesse and depth to understand them as art critics do. But words, words, they speak to me like nothing else.