Empty Words

The last time I wrote, I was trying to convince myself as much as I was trying to convince anyone else. As much as I believe writing should be relaxing and fulfilling, I sometimes feel like the things I write don't have enough truth to be considered meaningful. It's easy to sit down and write a story that sounds pretty, but often the things I write do nothing more than sound pretty. Perhaps for me, this is because I shy away from writing when I am feeling any overwhelming emotion. I am afraid that writing will reveal something I don't want to know. When I am dizzyingly happy, I don't want to burst my own bubble by examining it. When I am feeling worse than I ever have, I just want to curl up in self pity without searching for the cause of or solution to my problems. Writing can act as a scalpel, cutting through the layers of self deception in your life and piercing right to the truth. But as humans we deceive ourselves for a reason, trying to hide among false truths to avoid what is most painful.

Unfortunately, when I write in ways that prop up my own self deception, the writing is just drifting along the surface of a very deep pond. It might sound nice to me, but it means little to anyone else. And when I really think about it, it's empty to me too. Like a painted eggshell with the yolk blown out, it won't fill anyone's hunger for insight, truth, or even a good story.

I have had a lot of writing teachers, for better or for worse. At times I feel like I have learned so many rules about writing (don't use adverbs, be pithy, use original vocabulary) that I overthink everything I write. But the one piece of advice I have been given that is universally true and applicable to any writer that aspires to write something truthful is to write consistently. Write every day for fifteen minutes at least, just sit down and write for hours, don't worry about if it's good enough, just keep writing until you hit a truth, and then follow that vein for as long as it inspires you.

For the past two weeks I have been at an academic summer camp, and I've wanted to write. It began when I was feeling homesick and upset. I wanted to write but I was scared to approach my emotion directly, and didn't know how. So I wrote a fable about a girl who drinks a potion so she can fly away from her empty home. She finds romance and a happy life, but it's not a thrilling story. It's slow paced and melancholy. To me, this story doesn't feel empty. There is something alive inside of it that brings up true emotions. But the next day I had the continued urge to write, so I walked half a mile to a coffee shop and sat there for two hours, scribbling away and drinking iced tea. I came up with a strange story that was interesting, fun to write, but ultimately empty. It was melodramatic, and its strangeness wasn't excused by any sort of purpose. It was fun, but I felt let down by the outcome.

So what is the point of all this? I guess it is to say that not all writing has to be perfect, and not all writing has to be emotional. The second story that I wrote wasn't a great work of literature (not that the first one was either). But I can't get the memory of that day out of my mind. I walked through the beautiful, red brick campus of Salem College in Winston Salem, North Carolina. It was a brilliantly hot day, and I sat on a bench, watching a couple eat fast food and laugh on a nearby bench. I tried to write there, but was so bothered by mosquitoes I went on the trek down to the coffee shop, sometimes pausing on the way to write down an idea that struck me. Soon I was sitting at a table in a cool, air-conditioned room, scribbling and only pausing to take sips of green tea. For the past two weeks I had been surrounded by people all the time, and I felt pressured to make friends and be social. For an introvert like me, this was indescribably stressful. As I wrote I felt that stress slipping away. I felt calmer than I had in days, and I felt a certain pride in having taken matters into my own hands and having found a way to enjoy my weekend that was different from what everyone else was doing, but felt right to me. In this moment, the actual product of my writing was unimpressive. But the fun and peaceful afternoon it gave me was priceless.

Of course, I hope to someday be the kind of writer who wields words like scalpels. But I don't want to force myself, right now, to be something I'm not. After having a succession of writing teachers (all very good teachers with good advice), I came dangerously close to losing my love for writing. It felt like an art I could never measure up to. But I've slowly come to realize that the only advice I should follow is this: write consistently, write when you want to and when you don't, write every day, and never worry if it's "good" or not, because eventually you will hit on a truth that needs to be said, and that will certainly be worth every empty word you ever wrote.


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