To Know What I'm Doing

I don't know what I'm doing when I write, usually. I think I am trying to find truths. Not The Truth. I don't believe in The Truth anymore. I believe in feelings, in impressions, in perspectives. Obscure ones, little heavy ones, even big guys that hide in strange places. Post-modernism, you complicate, but with your complication you liberate.

I don't usually know what I'm writing about when I write. I like it that way. As writers, we are told to "write what you know!" by so many others who came before us. And this works for a while. But eventually, like a marathon runner or a fish plugging along upstream, I hit a wall. What can I say that has not been said before? That's when I reach.

First thing that comes to mind, jot it down. No pressure in brainstorming, in drafting--there will be time to murder words later. Plunge into that abyss. I find new things. I find strange things. Old dreams, cobwebbed. Something I once said to my sister that I don't believe anymore. Foghat. A lick from a Miles Davis tune. Matisse. Stamps.

I once went to a panel at a conference where the panelists talked about writing at, or writing through, as opposed to writing about. Writing about is lame. How now, to write through? At, in this scenario, seems easier. I can see my subject, and I approach. Via specificity. Via detail. Via a thimble where I allow connotations to sift through.

But Through? How to write as if I were inside a thing, and not separate from it? Surely this asks a certain kind of mind, from the author, a level of awareness that hinges upon imagination and breathes relentless impressions.

When I abandon trying to sound like I know what I'm doing and allow myself to sound like I'm feeling around in the dark, part exhilaration, part nervous laughter, part stubbing each individual toe, maybe this is through.