[Please note, I am posting here the last third of some free writing we did in class, relatively unrevised but somewhat abridged!]
I do love writing, and in fact I love language. I love words. I love the grammatical structures that hold words and ideas together and make them communicable. I love grammatical puns and missteps. I love beautiful prose. I’m less excited by what is more mundane. … And I want to be a beautiful writer. And a meaningful writer.
I think about the conversation today in class, and about art and perspective and the limits of language. I a realize why so often I feel utterly stymied by all of this. Because at the end of the day my writing, beautiful or mundane, never quite says exactly what I want it to say? Because there is less of me? more of me? than what is on the page? Because as soon as I say it it is somehow not quite right? Not quite what I wanted to say? Or maybe it was when I wrote it, but language and ideas and what I want to say are all too fluid.
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