questions for the one who questions
I believe in the kind of writers who let something go on the page, can do minor edits, and allow the mythical reader to determine what is happening on the page, for the meaning resting along each line. I also believe in the kind of writers who sit with their work for an impossibly long time, mulling over every word for its power, and questioning the work’s subtext for deeper meaning.
Most writers are somewhere in the middle, no? I find myself surprised sometimes when others read some new aspect in the piece that I hadn’t considered. I approach most of my writing from an initial question. It feeds the work that follows, whether or not I get the answer I expect.
But I’ve started thinking about the question itself. Who formulates the question? What is important to them? Where do they come from that has helped draft the question. This may feel like I’m leading to a discussion on the hierarchy of needs. Maybe. I mean, if I wake up and my first question is whether or not I’ve got bottled water for my coffee pot then where I come from is really different than someone who has to serve another coffee at a job they are lucky to have.
Maybe this is about unreliable narrators. Something we could all be accused of at one time or another. But questions from those who are unreliable reveal just as much as those who we may lift up. Take The Proust Questionnaire, created by Marcel Proust, the essayist and novelist, as an exercise in revealing one’s true nature. Or the 36 Questions that Lead to Love, which indicates that mutual shows of vulnerability lead to a sense of closeness.
The reader and the writer create a kind of bond, whether known to each other or not. Studies have shown that reading fiction increases empathy in the reader. Writing has the opportunity to create empathy for the writer. Here is a kind of music, two voices at each end, speaking to each other, sometimes with the very same words. I say this in any class I teach: There have been centuries of writers and orators. The number of ideas that can be written about are maybe a dozen potentials: love, death, change, self, nature, history, fears, etc. The only reason stories still exist (and are necessary) is because those who write still question their place in this world and it’s that questioning that provides a unique outlook others need to see and to recognize within themselves.
I say all this because it has been in my head for a few weeks now. It is part of a larger discussion about being true to my writing. To do so means that I must also be true to myself. To attempt this I have to recognize the places where I am less than truthful with myself or my audience, where I craft questions based on the person I want to be, sometimes denying who I am. Hell, sometimes it’s about crafting the world I want to live in versus where I actually make my life. Questioning is a constant, nearly endless. As we learn about ourselves more questions rise up. This is what it means to create our life, no?