Writing Paper 4: How Are You A Writer?

A Partial Literacy Narrative: Perfect Imperfection

            Take out a clean, white piece a paper from your desk drawer and a sharp, smart pencil. Gather your thoughts, take a deep breath, and in the instant that the pencil touches the page for the first time, there. Magic happens. After hearing the question, “Why write?” I came up with another, “Why not?” For me, writing is a process. I write to clear my head and put all those jumbled-up thoughts onto paper. Then it is the paper’s responsibility to hold, keep, and translate my thoughts into words, my declarative sentences into bold structures, and my questions into the first steps towards a greater understanding. I write to be heard, to make my mark and know that somewhere, I have something etched in a metaphorical stone that will stand the test of time. I write to tell a story, or persuade an opinion. I write to impress my reader; I write to inspire, or to question those things I may not understand. I write to take on a challenge and try to make sense of it. Although my readers may, or may not understand the true weight of my words, they will try. They will try, as I will try, to push my writing towards perfection, if there even is such an aspiration. Yet, this proves to be too challenging at times, and more and more, I feel that I write for me. Honestly, what does it matter if someone judges, or doesn’t agree?

            After I complete a work, I wonder what you, my reader, think of me. What do you feel, taste, and desire after you have leafed through my pages? Against my better judgment I sometimes try to impress you too much. Yet, I am unlike Billy Collins, the author of “The Flight of the Reader.” I never would think that we could have too much of each other, you are not the annoying type. I agree that you are like the “cricket, or bluebird,” on my shoulder, because we do need each other. I need you to stay close and wonder about my metaphorical words. I know I can make no sense sometimes, or stay to conformed, so what do you see as you look on day after day? I perform and you look on, peering around the curtain, standing in the wings, watching and waiting for the next step. I fear that you may walk away and not be transfixed by my style. For what will I have if not the technique to fascinate you? Yet, I will continue day after day, hour after hour. Yet, do not feel like you are all I need, all I need is my imagination. You are not my crush, as you are for Collins, you are my inspiration.

            I remember when I was little; my dad was the storyteller in my family. He used to always tell me those stories of, "when he was a child….” One particular story I remember him telling me time and time again, was about he and his older brother, Paul. As typical older brothers do, my Uncle Paul dared my dad to climb a tall tree in their New Jersey backyard, to the very top. If he didn’t, my dad always said, he would be a "chicken." My dad did indeed climb to the top of that cherry tree, but when he reached the highest branch and looked down at his shocked brother, he saw the height, and lost his balance. He fell from the tree and landed on his arm, which broke. He always used to say that even though he broke his arm, and even though he fell, he proved to himself that he could do whatever he wished to.

As a young girl, I thought this was a wonderful, silly, inspiring story. Growing up, my dad always pushed me to climb to the top of the highest tree and do whatever I dreamt I wanted to do. I strived to be able to do whatever I desired, and to never be afraid to slip, fall, or get hurt, because I knew I could always pick myself up, dust myself off, and fix my mistakes. I learned that everyone falls sometimes, but what matters, is the decision to get back up. Falling is a process I encountered again as I learned how to write. Now I encounter it again everyday, each time I write a sentence.

A sentence starts out like a raindrop; the first one falling from that unfortunate cloud that just couldn't hold on any longer. It may splash down on someone's unsuspecting head and trigger an emotion from contempt to joy. One may cower and run from the truth, or indulge in the splashing of newly formed puddles. As the words continue, like the clouds rolling through the darkening sky, you look up, and it may not seem so bad after all. For no one has ever melted from raindrops, but many have slipped and fallen, but always have gotten back up. Hold your head high, they say to young children, don't fear thunderstorms. For thunderstorms are just those pieces of writing that you may not understand. Everyone, at any age, can always learn. I strive to write perfection, and who can blame me? I am only imperfection, as is my writing: perfect imperfection, a compilation of ever changing and expanding thoughts.