Writing Is Like Wielding A Wizard's Wand

Why do writers write stories? Why do musicians play music? Why do painters paint, and wood carvers sculpt? What lives in those crusades to inspire and confess?

One of my most tremendous fears is simply disappearing. Vanishing into some kind of nothing, while no one notices, and never leaving a trace of me behind. A girl, once standing on the fresh, green earth, and the next minute, she's just gone. Life moves on after death. Life moves on after tragedies, gusts of joy, phases of sadness and pain. Fast and endless. Regardless of unjust cruelties or cheated time. If there's any driving force to this Universe, it's to keep itself moving. We're dying off and regenerating; stars, babies and old men. The experiences we record and leave behind are the last pieces of us left. We're joined in each others ebb and flow, and then one day, one of us is gone.

Sometimes I share the most intimate experiences of my life with a brazen courage conjured by some invisible force I'm trying to impress. Sometimes I hide them inside fiction, creating a tangible cocoon I can later re-visit with a cup of hot tea and a film worthy view outside my window. There's a British program that existed when I was a child, later becoming available to watch in America on a TV show called Captain Kangaroo. It was Simon In The Land Of Chalk Drawings; the story of a child who's drawings on a blackboard would come to life and start their own small adventures. This was a creation based on some children's books by a man named Edward McLachlan. Mr. McLachlan started something that would have a profound effect on me as a kid, and show me how to express myself for the rest of my life. I began early, by drawing characters that were more than pictures to me; these were individuals with their own imaginary lives in their own imaginary world, and I would make sure everyone knew they and their experiences were real. Their moments were real. Their lives were born out of my own, and so a piece of me would be planted in the minds and hearts of other people forever. Even then, I didn't want to be invisible.

I admired the way artists took the chaos inside their hearts, spinning pain into music and anxiety into film as I got older. It was fascinating that one could take something so dark and unfair, and refine it into something beautiful. There was finally a way to turn the dark into light. A way to fix the wrongs that surrounded people's daily lives. A simple story or song would put them in a seat and send them on a trip to the moon. I could even hide secrets and coded messages in my stories & pictures, filtering and straining my audience into collective combinations. I began to notice who noticed those secrets, and there began an unspoken communication. A new language that required a new behavior. It was an uncharted level of information delivery. I'd moved to a higher interchange. Now I was flying.

I never learned much about writing and visual art in school. I took the courses, but it didn't feel necessary. I'd somehow been born with an instinct for storytelling, and I honestly don't understand how. While I am perfectly capable of speaking if I need to, verbal communication always took a little more of an effort. The second my hands touch a keyboard or pencil, however, the words pour out with the power of an eagre. This has served me very well in the course of my life. It became a weapon when I found myself without aid. I wielded words like a sword, and found I could do much more than simply tell stories. I could send secret messages when I found myself in a dangerous situation. I could talk the most stubborn people into things they'd never normally consider. I could even do damage control in impossible situations. I realized the power of words, and decided I'd better be very careful. I had the potential for good or evil, along with many other people I saw creating tremendous things. Something had gifted me with the ability to be one of them. When I discovered this, I was both humbled and nervous. Why would I- little, tiny me- be endowed with such a responsibility? And it was. The recognition that you can make something that vivid actually starts to feel heavy. I began paying more attention to how I wrote my stories and letters and internet posts. I started paying attention to how everything written or advertised worked in public arenas. I watched as people reacted to blogs, magazines, books, movies, commercials; just about any communication source that involved a writer.

The climax in my understanding came one night as I walked home alone from a social media event that occurred in NYC in the early 2000s. I'd spent the previous year building up an audience with that brand new site called YouTube, writing little skits and acting them out just for fun. Some of my art was a bit- dark themed. For me, it was just fun and therapeutic. But I'd apparently attracted the attention of someone who'd taken some of it a little too seriously. He was attending the event, and followed me home that evening. When we reached the subway, very few people were on the platform. He decided to get bold. He'd written down everything I'd done, and had questions for me. What did it all mean? Why did I do this or that, and this is what God says to do...

He became very- passionate, and I was a bit terrified. The train came, I went home, and time proved to bring larger biting insects from the wood. Eventually, the threats were getting a little too real and I decided to disappear from the internet. I changed my name, and learned to drown out all previously existing media that had anything to do with me online. Now, in addition to making things visible, I'd become good at making things vanish. I stayed out out of the public eye for about three or four years. But being invisible wasn't who I was. Eventually, I had to come back and start over. 

Words do more than I could have ever imagined. We're gatekeepers; meticulously crafting an exact picture of what we want to show or explain. Once we used papyrus and ink, now we use technology. It spreads like wildfire in cyberspace. Audiences grow faster than ever before. They're connected at the train stations of websites and comment  boxes. They spy each other through digital windows. And once you hit a certain number of readers, you can be sure some weird things are about to happen. I prefer smaller collectives these days. They're safer, and they're more genuine. It's an entirely different energy that doesn't require so much guarding. Finally, I've been able to find a point where I can relax, enjoy what I do, and communicate on a more balanced plane. I now seem to have a very small and intelligent class of readers on here. I've lent myself to a smaller tribe. It's akin to feeling like you're a  part of a friendly neighborhood, and it feels good. I finished college with a degree in journalism, and after all this, I decided not to use it. 

“Sticks and Stones” isn't realistic. Words can definitely hurt you. Words can make their way to the physical world. They can build miracles and encourage love. They can also send you to the grave. I've seen words ruin people who were once great. I've seen them put criminals on pedestals. We're living in a world of a thousand opportunities and fast satisfaction. Be careful with that pencil; it's a magic wand that can do pretty amazing things. What had I written that had provoked a young man to follow me home that night in a fit of aggression, lecturing about religion and begging me for answers on a subway platform? I didn't have answers. I just had fictional writings. What causes a fan of someone's music or art to become obsessive and stalk their families? What causes the shooting of rock stars singing about peace and love? What are so many people feeling inside that causes such a downward spiral? There must be something very wrong with the way most of us live our lives for such a void and a loneliness to be present in so many. I think about that every time I encounter someone who just can't stop at friendship. If I find out someone I care about has been harassed by someone who reads my older political blog posts, or finds some ancient comic story I wrote when I was going through my darkest phases & reads more into it than is there. But while words can bring scary encounters, I'm still compelled to write them. Boundaries will be crossed, no matter how careful you are. There is just too much around us. I try to not let it completely stifle what I want to say, or make me quit like I did once before. There's a fine balancing act there. Just get up on the high wire and tread carefully.

Thoughts and confessions, December, 2018. Today's musing is done.