“In the particular is contained the universal.” – James Joyce
Sometimes I have to forget about you–the reader.
Your gaze invokes my self-consciousness. And my self-consciousness strangles the work. Or stops it all together. (Fear is a powerful dam.)
But, I knew the risks when I decided to start this blog. When I decided to invite your gaze.
The posts I publish here languish for weeks. I construct and deconstruct and reconstruct them. I push them through a dozen drafts.
Which is like working out really hard before you walk onto a stage completely naked. Sure, you have abs. But you’re still naked.
Those dozen drafts are not about perfection, though. (Most of the time.)
They’re about honesty.
Each pass of the cursor is a chance to peel back another layer of the lies I’m so effectively and elusively telling us both. I don’t mean to lie. Really. It’s just stubborn self-consciousness.
But there’s the problem again. The self.
The self that mistakenly identifies with the writing. That thinks if you like the writing, you like me. And that, as a social animal, my actual, bodily survival depends on your liking me.
But there’s no room at my desk for that self that is so worried about what you think. To do the work I have to be emptied. Hollow. I have to make space for that wild, powerful, mysterious energy. I have to surrender. Because the work is not primarily constructed out of our differences, or my specialness, but out of our sameness. The quieter I get, the deeper I bore into my own particular life, the more I find myself in a well of shared consciousness.
It is clear on the surface that you (the reader) and I (the writer) are distinct. But two distinct beings are not all that is needed for communication. Communication requires the tension between differentiation and sameness–the particular and the universal, as Joyce wrote–which, it turns out, are found in the same exact place.
I write because it is a vehicle for entering that place. It is a means of dismantling the self that limits my humanity and my vitality.
The act of writing calls forth all of my fears. It shows me where I am bound, where I am still trying to hide. It gives me the opportunity again and again to loosen the knots of self, to know my experience more deeply and therefore to know the breadth and depth of our shared humanity.
But it only works if there is an audience in front of the stage– if the writing goes out to you, the reader. Because it is you I am most afraid of. And it is you I am so indebted to, because it is your gaze which reminds me that I am naked.
That I have more work to do.