M
y fellow carbon-based
compatriots, allow me
to, if I may be so imper-
tinent, let you in on a dirty little
secret:
Most writers are masochists.
There, I’ve said it.
Not in the sexual sense you un-
derstand, and not every writer.
Indeed, there are those writers
who prefer to inflict torture on
their readers rather than them-
selves, but... the less said about
them the better.
However, it’s true that writers,
particularly essayists like myself,
are masochists, at least on some
level. Now why, you may ask,
would I say such a beastly thing
about my fellow scribblers?
The truth is, writers are often
willing to dig into the deepest,
darkest corners of their lives in
order to feed their ravenous liter-
ary appetites.
Case in point: an essay I wrote
some time ago my late fiancée
and adopted sister and the car
accidents that claimed them
both. Writing about them was
both cathartic and deeply pain-
ful, like the opening of an old
wound. The result was a deep
melancholy that left me lost in
my own memories for a while,
unable (or perhaps unwilling) to
commit pen to paper. It left me
drained and unable to focus for
many days.
Ernest Hemingway once said,
“Write hard and clear about what
hurts,” though I must confess I’m
not sure if he was referring to the
process of writing deeply person-
al stories, or creating correspon-
dence for your doctor. For the
sake of this article, I’ll assume
the former.
At this point, the clear thinking
and logical among you would be
inclined to ask, with a degree of
laser-focused insightfulness and
percipience that leaves me awe:
“If it hurts so much, why the hell
do you do it?”
Why indeed dear reader? The
person who can answer that
question possesses a depth of un-
derstanding of the human condi-
tion that goes beyond the abili-
ties of this correspondent. At the
very least they’d be guaranteed a
spot on the talk show circuit.
For me at least, the desire to
plumb the depths of one’s life
and share it in writing, whether
as fictional inspiration or as a di-
rect retelling, stems from a deep
and insatiable curiosity.
I’ve always been drawn to ques-
tions both philosophical and
existential. As a result, I’ve dis-
sected nearly every aspect of my
life. While I’ve learned a great
deal from these excursions into
the examined life, they often lead
to more questions than answers,
as you can probably imagine.
The loss of two humans so dear
to my heart led to many ques-
tions. At first the questions were
angry, as if I was demanding
explanations from the universe
itself.
As time dulled the anger and
replaced it with a deep, incon-
solable sadness, the questions
became much more plaintive,
and much more philosophical.
I began to examine my reactions
to life’s events, rather than the
events themselves. I began to see
patterns, and from those patterns
came a small degree of insight
and even understanding.
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