Misconceptions

I've been thinking a lot lately about my identity as a writer, and what that means exactly. At the present I've finally been able to communicate (at least to myself) why I find it to be so frustrating. As a self-described purveyor of words, articulation is where my talent lies. I am capable of using the free floating elements of human communication to describe. But description is the root of the problem. There is more to imagination and life than can ever be described accurately, and as a uniquely imaginative person who feels that life is intrinsically artistic, there is always more that I want to convey. And so I've realized that my internal self and my ability to communicate, that connection that forges my very writerhood, is entirely coincidental. When I decide to transform the transient and shapeless stuff of thought into concrete language, the ensuing prose, poetry or even speech bears a strong resemblance to its source, but does not capture it entirely. Regardless of whether or not I am satisfied with the product, or if resonates with people, I am still looking at something that is essentially different from what I intended. And so it's always with something of a stranger's eye that I look on my own work, an alien creation that came from me, but as with all creation now stands as an entity unto itself. And so I've decided that the best writers are not the ones who can lay out a scene in perfect detail, transferring the images they see directly into the minds of their readers. Not to say that they are not incredibly talented. I think the true beauty in writing is the ability to use language to convey precisely how impossible it is to articulate abstractness. To remind the reader that there is far, far more than what he/she is actually looking at, and hope that the strength of your inability to convey creates the result you intended. It's a pretty paradox, and I think its reconciliation is the key to my writer's block. Huzzah.