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Writers are all as different as anyone else, but I especially notice two kinds. There are those that will tell you every gory detail of the story straight up, all of the ribald and bloody and nauseating and uncomfortable parts of it. But there are writers, too, who are tentative, reflective, who speak through symbolism and metaphor, who take the sunny path all the way around the subject, showing you only what you need to see to understand. Or sometimes they never get to the point at all and just write a bunch of well-crafted pleasantries that readers love them for.

Unfortunate news

If I only knew how to, or would put the time in to try, I’d go for the latter. It’s writing that might be vague, or difficult to understand during the first read-through, but that is so wrapped up in its own mystery that the reader thinks less on what the writer wrote and more on how they wrote it. It’s like placing a little stumbling block or puzzle in front of your audience, saying “this is me, but you’ve got to work your way through it to figure it out.” (Some examples at hand: Annie Dillard’s essay “The Weasel”; E.E. Cummings’s poetry … and of course all that reading for English class in high school that didn’t make any sense at the time.)

If I could only put that little stumbling block in front of my writing, it might help me to tell you everything.

I don’t mean everything as in every little detail of my life, but everything that you think you’re getting when you read one of my pieces. It’s usually not the whole story you’re getting, when you read what I write. I don’t just feel sad; I feel betrayed. I don’t feel angry; just annoyed. I’m not just amused; I’m thrilled to pieces.

But you don’t see these things. Because sometimes I want to close up, turn my back, curl up under a blanket, and share absolutely nothing with anybody. I don’t want to tell you everything. I don’t want to tell you anything. Sometimes, you know, it’s none of your business what’s going on in my head. I want to keep some of it for myself, be someone who still has some mystery left.

But writers have so much to say, don’t they? Part of being a writer is sharing something you are thinking, something that occupies your thoughts and needs to make its way to paper. There’s a story line I’ve developed. There is this eccentric and yet somehow relatable character that I’ve thought up that is so real that he needs to exist in that story. I watched the sun go down the other night and had all kinds of poignant thoughts about life that I think look better on paper than they would floating around in my head. I’ve had this crazy idea about broccoli that I just can’t keep to myself anymore. So sure, there are things I think you should know. And yet …

Does writing give me room to change?

So I’ve realized that my writing gives away a lot of me. With each piece I write, I can pretend less and less because I’ve showed you something new. Not only can I not hide as much of me away as before, but I have less room to change. Once my piece is read by you, will you always think of me that way? To you, Lindsey might always be the cynical girl who scoffs at romance movies. Or she might always be the writer who casts a wary eye on cell phones and computers. Am I allowed to ever be less cynical? Can I buy an iPhone and write about how it good it makes me feel without confusing you? It’s difficult to put any words down for fear that they will set my character in stone, forever define me in the eyes of someone else. I want room to change. I don’t want people discounting something I write because I had a different opinion on it five years ago.

Performance anxiety

People like to talk about themselves. Even a “how are you?” can spiral off into a soliloquy. From what I have seen and experienced in being female, I have noticed that it especially involves a lot of talking. Please, ask me about myself. I’ll be happy to tell you anything if you act as though you are interested enough.

But writing is different. It is me sharing something I’m thinking of my own volition. It’s of my own doing. No one had to “drag it out of me”. I’m not prompted to tell because of issues that need to be addressed for my or someone else’s well being, or because someone will die or because the government will come after me if I don’t tell them everything I know. It sounds much simpler than all that:

I have to choose to share something with you.

Regardless of whether you are a complete stranger, or someone who knows fifty million of my secrets, it’s a little nerve wracking. Really, it’s almost as bad as reading out loud in front of a large group of articulate people, or playing music for musicians. There’s so much me in it — what I have to put into something to make it work as it was meant to. Am I saying too much? What people will read, it’s all from and about and out of me. It’s too much of me there. Should I be burdening people with all of my thoughts like this? Does it sound like a cry for help? Does it just sound like my own stupid opinion?

Sometimes I forget that you can choose whether to listen to me or not. It’s not like I have to tackle you and pin you down and holler all my words into your ear. For now, I hope that you will forgive me for the half-truths I tell, and enjoy my attempt at well-crafted pleasantries, those things that take you the long way around. But perhaps if you decide to read enough of my writing, you’ll get past all of that, and the pieces will all fit together, and you will have figured me out after all.

Illustration by Lacey Anderson.

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Topics

• Pithy Tales
• Accounts & Glimpses
• Verse
• On Writing