On writing
Ryan Pratt
There are a
thousand guidelines but no rules. Some of us want to escape reality or create a
new one. Others prefer to ground themselves, alert to every tick of the clock.
But crossing our legs won’t cut it. We have to focus on our breath and treat
every ambient happenstance like the random, never-before-uttered revelation it
is. What makes meditation challenging, and thus a practice, is knowing that
we’ll be repeatedly sucked out of the present moment by thoughts, worries,
doubts and distractions. Whether we sit for five minutes or two hours per day,
the process becomes more to persevere than find bliss.
Writing’s a
lot like meditation. A thousand guidelines, no rules, and that eternal why, lingering at the exhale of our
self-criticisms: Why spend one’s precious
life [insert verb here]? Surely, for every writer, the why is out there – but pinpointing it almost restricts it. If
thinking about meditating spoils the act, it seems clear – the less we think
about, worry and doubt why we write, the better we’ll write. The why is more mystical than personal.
An anecdote
for the personal: As a teenager, writing helped negotiate a range of emotions
that most of my friends sorted or suppressed over endless games of Golden Eye. But I couldn’t see through
heartache, or write about other lives and neutral places that weren’t stunted
by my gaze. Every intersection became a potential stage for some bloated
triumph or failure. And my universe – though technically the size of St.
Catharines, Ontario – diminished as suburban patches were absorbed, blocks at a
time, into an all-important black-hole I called “poetry”.
That
self-mythologizing was a roundabout way of figuring out who I really was: a self-absorbed
kid. But it also revealed what I wasn’t: a poet. The real writing began once I
dispelled with the baggage, acknowledged my privilege and realized that white, young
men largely share the same knack for confessional clichés. Issues of greater,
worldly significance crept in from the margins and the why, repelled from the self, joined a community. Who knows: If I
continue writing for decades, it’s possible I’ll end up in the fringes or
spotlight of somebody else’s literary tradition. And hopefully, if such a thing
occurs, I won’t take that too seriously either.
Because
writing is alchemy. It doesn’t absolve us of hard work. But sometimes, a handful
of ideas – devoid of shared timing, context or geography – will align in ways
that work wonders, even if we can’t psychoanalyze why the synthesis feels so
true. In those moments, writing has never been more and less about us, as if
we’re simultaneously tapping into a subconscious yet collective stream of
thought. Tell me that isn’t mystical!
Back in
2015 I celebrated National Poetry Month by sharing erasure poems sourced solely
from those aforementioned, teenaged writings. I don’t recommend doing this. After
30 erasures and a lot of wincing, I fulfilled the project by destroying the
original, worn-edged moleskins. It was my way of paying tribute – maybe not to
the skills I lacked, but to the spirit that kept me writing each night. Whether
that made a poet out of me doesn’t matter – it gave me purpose.
Stumbling
upon fresh avenues of thought and expression is a thrill, near-bliss. And until
we do, we persevere, have faith. That’s why, in spite of our thoughts, worries,
doubts and distractions, we sit. And I reckon we’re better people for it.
Ryan Pratt lives in Hamilton, Ontario. His poetry has
appeared in Great Lakes Review, Quiddity, and CV2, among other places. Rabbit months (shreeking violet press,
2016) is his debut chapbook.
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