I once was asked why I write what I write. This question should come more frequently, really, since the subjects that often surface in my writing are hideously exciting topics such as pain, sadness, and grief. I finally thought it through enough and answered, “I like to explore the human experience. Poke around in it.” I pulled from an actor named Tim Daly, paraphrasing something I heard him say in a random interview once about why he acts, and why he portrays some complicated characters particularly. His answer was something like, “I like to poke around in the depths of humanity.” (Hey, Tim Daly, if you’re reading this: Sorry for probably butchering that paraphrase). I had to rewind the video a few times and listen to him say those words—more or less—a few times. It was a moment of, “Hey, that’s why I write.”
I feel it’s safe to say that humans have something in them that make them tick, and especially those who are creative by nature. “It,” with a capital I, is like a little voice in their head telling them to either jump off a cliff, bake cookies for their elderly neighbor, or go write something. Because I’m in this community of creatives, friends who can write beautiful poetry or stunning prose, I also feel safe when I say that most writers—myself included—would rather do one of the first two than sit down and actually write something, actually be in touch with the dungy innards of my psyche. (Feelings. Ick). Like now, I’ve set aside this time for myself to write. I told myself I’ll do it today. I’ll sit down, I’ll focus, I’ll maybe even turn some good music on (to Bonnie Raitt, if you’re reading this: thank you), and I’ll write. It’ll be genius. It’ll be wonderful. It’ll be a babbling mess, most likely, like what I’m doing now. Because, instead of writing about whatever it was that popped into my head that I thought was possibly literary genius while going seventy down I-65, I sat here and tried to remember that potential brilliance until my eyes crossed while looking at a blank screen and a keyboard.
Let’s switch subjects abruptly now, unlike how my wonderful English professors have always taught me. (If you’re one of those precious professors and are reading this: I’m sorry). After Dad passed a few years back, I’ve unconsciously gravitated toward people who also could be labeled with the overused and slightly grotesque term “Daddy issues.” One of my best friends lost her dad when she was in middle school. A dear friend in college was battling her dad’s cancer alongside him, living with such boldness and fearlessness somehow even though we both knew “It” could happen any day. There’s that It, again, capital “I.” The classmate who I always envied for her beautiful nonfiction prose is now writing about her estranged relationship with her father after a sudden and tumultuous act of disloyalty. I look forward to each time she posts a poem on Instagram because she uses her words to gut me. All three of these people are younger than me, only by a few years. I’m young (I think…my body says I’m not). They’re younger. They’ve found their “It.” I suppose I found my “It” around their ages, too. And they say your twenties are the best years of your life.
All three of these young ladies have this innate ability to manipulate words into something that looks beautiful while carving a knife in your chest like a Thanksgiving turkey. I’ve been called a poet before, but I will bow at their feet if this is a competition. (If you’re one of these three ladies and have recognized yourself as one of them: you’re amazing, and can I get your autographs?). As I mentioned before, those words gut me. They leave every last organ hanging on the outside of my body. Although my innards have become my outards, they somehow survive with blood still pumping through them. It is my job, then, after reading their words, to piece myself back together. (Does the small intestine go first, or the large intestine? Maybe it’s the stomach? Oh no. If you’re a doctor reading this: well, I’m glad it was you in medical school and not me). When I pick each piece of myself up from the outside, I carefully examine it, trying to find the place it goes as if I’m working a jigsaw puzzle that I should know very well by now. Somehow, each time they gut me, and I’m left with the task of rebuilding myself, something is different. Little pieces of me are new, or little pieces have gone, or little pieces have changed. It can’t be the same jigsaw puzzle every time, I suppose, or I’d get bored with myself. What’s more human than inspecting each of your inside pieces while putting them back in your otherwise hollowed body?
The only difference between us being walking carcasses and us being humans is these inside pieces that absolutely must function properly. (If you’re reading this and wondering if I’m on drugs: No, it’s just the “It” prompting me to keep talking myself silly). These pieces divide us from cadavers, labelling us more gently as “human beings” or “humans.” Is it a big claim to say that this artwork that those three ladies share so graciously with the world around them is what keeps me human? Maybe, but I believe it’s true. Their “It” is so closely related to my “It” that I am able to keep myself examined and dusted off for a while longer. I’ll be more than a carcass for a while longer, and maybe I’ll go bake the elderly neighbor some cookies—or maybe I’ll write something that guts someone else.
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