Then I washed all the clean sheets and polished ornaments. They catch the sun rays on their shiny surfaces. Adjusting them just a little, this way and that. Takes a few minutes. Out of a day. While sky is relentlessly blue.
Some feeble weeds caught my eye while hanging out the unnecessary washing. Perhaps I should really attend to the garden while is still sunny, plant some more geraniums … or any other number of things.
Such as clean non-existent dust, prepare meals nobody will eat, watch mind-numbing television programs, manicure my nails for outings I will not be invited to, read serious literature so to learn how it is done … or any other number of things.
And all to escape the blank page, to avoid staring at it for hours on end like a prisoner into the bars on his cell’s windows. No way out and no way in.
Oh to think that I am playing at being a writer! And in English at that! Oh the cheek!
And what with? Handful of words gathered here and there, and no sounds. No sounds to speak of! Because you see, it is the sound that does it.
The writer is like a violinist, like a musician who hears the sound and then writes it down in those mysteriously elegant looking symbols. Inside them; sounds are captured, anchored on pages. For anyone to see, to hear, to play.
The writer sees the landscapes of his stories; the music played in secluded cafés, the lovers’ whispers, sound of rain at the day break, the scent of man’s skin in love-making … it is like looking through the finest lace, only just glimpsing the images … seeing only faint shapes and pale colours. Feeble smells and muffled sounds.
Oh to make them alive!
But to make them alive, writer needs not only words, but sounds of words. Sounds that make the story dance with joy, moan with pleasure, wail in pain … the reader needs not only hear it, but to feel it. Be mesmerized by it.
When this ‘writer’ (or what is left of one) senses ripples of groans escaping lovers embrace, like the rich, liquid honey, shimmering with golden desire, or smells the primal pungency of moist earth after the first plough cut it open in autumn … she fails to capture sounds needed to breathe life into them.
The sensations are all there; under her skin, in her vision, seemingly within her reach; mocking and torturing her daily … but words, oh the words are never quite the right ones … the necessary ones, the required ones; the only ones that can make every pain, and every joy, and every image alive on the page.
And it is all because of sounds!
Writing about droplets of rain that danced on the rooftop while he stroked her hair, does not evoke that radiating, loaded connotation, that haze of desire … because word ‘rain’ does not evoke the same sound as the word ‘kisa’. There is the lack of that essential primordial familiarity born out of the sound the first speaker in one’s life made when mouthing the word … the sound one’s first associated with the water failing on the surfaces. It is the secret code of every language.
And when this code is lost or broken; the older one is – the harder is to find it, or to mended it. The original one becomes more and more ill-fitting, while the new ones remains inadequate … while unspoken sounds extinguish a piece of one’s soul daily.
To write is to live in agony … not to write is not to live at all.
- It Sounds the Same But Doesn’t Mean the Same (english.answers.com)
- Creative Writing: Practicing Your Narrative Writing (english.answers.com)
- Great Writing: It’s No Secret (alchemyoftheword.me)
- Writing as a Virtual Art (alchemyoftheword.me)