Writing Real

                We are told to behave at an early age, to sit up and sit down and please raise your hand and use classroom voices. We are given rules to follow but no guidelines to construct a sense of self. We are told to be responsible but have no idea how to handle responsibility.

                The sun colors the sky more beautifully than an artist’s rendition ever could; the universe is a painter who’s had trillions of years to perfect her craft. I stare out and across the landscape, seeing the water and the trees and it is a bit overwhelming. It’s evening now, and getting nippy, but I cannot shift my eyes.

                It’s been approximately five months since I started my novel, and I have to admit the pace has slowed recently, for reasons I’m not sure of. Part of it, I think, is that I’ve lost track of my artistic purpose. I somehow devolved into writing for writing’s sake instead of writing for pleasure—and writing to communicate. I try to enjoy what I write; ideally, I’ll return to a piece I wrote earlier in the day to savor it like a bite of good steak.

                The second part—writing to communicate—can be just as hard. For me, I’m drawn to a sense of moral purpose when I write—it’s no accident that two of my favorite novels are The Grapes of Wrath and the Brothers Karamazov by Dostoevsky. I’m inspired by the way Steinbeck humanizes the Okies and makes their stories emotionally real, while calling readers to action in favor of a socialist response to the Great Depression. I’m drawn to Dostoevsky’s religious and spiritual intent, where he makes a case for a happiness bound less by suffering and more by individual moral choices.

                Writing makes things real. And I’m trying these days to be more real. More honest. With myself and with others. Specifically, I really want to write to encourage those who have gone through similar struggles. As I do this, my inner voices of desperation and rule-following seem to force me into a corner of a maze I’ve been trying to navigate through for most of my life.

                This is what I’m trying to do: to try to destroy the barrier between what I write and what I choose to write about. The last thing I’m trying to do is self-censor: I figure the sooner that I’m willing to write about what makes me feel uncomfortable, the sooner my writing will improve. The tough stuff includes things that would embarrass me, compromise me, and put my comfort in danger.

                And so: I resolve to write about everything. I resolve to write what my heart pleases me to write; not putting to paper something because I am afraid is no way to live at all. Of course, I cannot air my dirty laundry—that is for actual conversation with friends.

                If you’d like to read an excerpt of my novel, let me know at john.bang12@gmail.com.