There is so much to read! It’s a constant conglomeration! I hardly have time to absorb the detail from Country Life – which I only receive weekly at best. And then there’s the news, whatever one reads on the internet; and electronic books, plus stuff forwarded by friends from their personal resources. Not to mention having to read one’s emails. And I’m dyslexic so it takes me longer!
Yet in spite of this flaw and overflow, I continue to write every day. The production is especially curious because I have so little to say. Even when I hearken upon my past with a generous perspective, there is little that emerges of consequence. One wonders why I bother! I merely pollute the literary atmosphere.
Granted there are occasionally matters of purely historic interest which might have legitimate appeal. But for the rest, it’s as mundane as it gets. Indeed if there were any characteristic affording the least degree of flattery and entitlement to my writing, it is the very domestic nature of my correspondence which dignifies it – rather a paradox, don’t you think, dear Reader? Yet – as I am shamefully willing to share with anyone who will listen – I’ve been at this writing thing for a very long time, since I was 14 years old which, for the sake of convenience and ready calculation, is about 60 years ago or more. Actually, more, by two years.
My writing began in a tiny and decidedly “girlish” cushioned diary with a lock and key. Soon I had either filled all the blank pages or, what I imagine to be more believable, I graduated to larger and more convenient recording procedures. Eventually – that is, when I began practicing law and had a bit of money of my own – I translated the rudimentary diary (whether handwritten or eventually typed) to a 3-ring binder with a genuine leather bound cover and my name embossed in gold on it. Clearly cosmetic pleasure far exceeded literary significance!
Which is interesting, now that I reflect upon it, because you’d think the constancy of daily writing would have eventually developed a measure of talent. But it didn’t. The trope about “finding your voice” is not simply a matter of repetition. My search for that proverbial voice was – until very recently that is – unsuccessful. But – while I am cautious about assuming any literary success because of some favourable commentary from those about whose intentions I am uncertain – this is not to say they are lying. But, let’s face it, kindness is not entirely unknown in the world of relationships. In fact only recently I caught myself saying something very supportive to another while privately musing that I doubted my own bona fides. In my defence I am not one of those people who – in matters of little import – feel the need to “say it like it is” when there’s the alternative to be supportive.
Now how did I get onto that? What matters about writing – that is, for me in my personal endeavour – is quite plainly the writing. It’s the act of writing. For whatever reason I have always felt the need to state my opinion in recorded fashion. Some, prefer music as a mode of expression. Or painting. Or pottery or sewing. Or whatever! Writing is just another means of expression – not simply to relate – but to fulfill. It’s my clay!
It is the subtle translation of writing to legibility that makes the difference. At my age – soon to be 77 – I haven’t any motive to reach for the stars. I am content with what is within my grasp. Certainly, if I felt it mattered, I may adjust my pursuit; but realistically nothing is bound to change. Long ago I acquired my recognizable (and now embedded) inflections – my intonation or pitch (to continue the metaphor). And why should I change? I have no intention to disguise my limitations. If speaking one’s voice means speaking another, then clearly there’s a gap in the logic and recommendation.
I will say however that clarification is good; and frequently that means tightening one’s language and avoiding popular phrases. Expression needn’t be common. Capturing one’s own view of the world is unique. The manner of expressing it is similarly unique. That, in my view, is where the real work begins, stepping back enough to identify the exact interpretation; and then to add the words that come to mind to depict that definition. In the end the creation can be very different from what one initially imagined, that is before the reference and reflection. It likely is immaterial to the reader whether the voice is authentic or not. Both the writer and the reader will have their own bases of assessment, their own platforms of meaning.