Writing

Writing is funny.

Most human activities have a corollary in the animal kingdom:
Mating eating sleeping, check.
Some animals build shelters, so building.
Birds sing & wolves howl, so we’ll say music.
I think I saw something on a nature show once
where primates were making some kind of art with handprints.
And dance–don’t cranes or honeybees do some kind of mating dance?

But writing, storytelling, theatrical mimesis;
these are unique to human beings.
Why?  Because we reflect, of course.
We feel, as do animals; we’ve all seen dogs happy and dogs sad.
But they don’t reflect on those feelings a day later.
The eyes and nose are on the fronts of faces, and the ears on the side,
but nothing is on the back of any creature’s head,
suggesting that life is to be lived forward.
So why do we feel the need to figuratively look backward?
We want to re-live and share triumph;
we struggle with the lingering sadness
that remains surrounding tragedy.
And then some people even write about it.
You may know some of them.
They are the ones
that never seem quite at home or satisfied in this world,
the ones that are always a bit of an enigma at best
and a pain in the ass at worst.
Whether or not they actually write is secondary;
I’m talking temperament here.
That’s another thing human beings do—-
we actively decide to repress and hide natural instincts and urges.
If an Elk felt compelled to write, he would write!
He wouldn’t struggle with “Do I have a right to write?”  He’d just do it.
He might even have a blog:
THE ANTLER RANT: Rutting and Writing for Elk of a Certain Ilk

I propose, then, that writing,
  the act of crystalizing and preserving reflection,
is the most human of endeavors.
(Yeah, I guess this is now self-aggrandizement,
since, if you can’t tell already,
I’m a writer who’s trying to not suppress the urge to write,
and trying to do a decent job of it,
entertaining & edifying along the way.)
Writing is the act of trying to organize
the maelstrom of thought and emotion that storms through us;
to make it visible, tangible, manageable.
To wrest away from our head heart & soul
some of the control they somehow exert over themselves.
To be the master of one’s self, to not be at the mercy of the tides.
A compulsion perhaps, but hopefully
a balm that soothes,
a fire that lights,
a drink that slakes thirst,
a glue that binds us together in communion
across time, space, and culture.

Writing is funny.
And if you’ve got a work ethic and a brain & soul, it is, hopefully, good.