How do I know what I think till I see what I say?
On discussion boards, I occasionally see writers present their process as something akin to transcription. They plan every detail of a scene before drafting, and then execute that plan virtually without deviation. These writers focus on efficiency. Who needs writing as discovery? Why meander when you can take the most direct path possible? It presents the essence of writing as an act of will and control.
Of course, I plan my writing too—if not before I draft, then certainly during and after. But I write on more shifting ground. I invariably say something I did not know I was going to say. My characters end up in unanticipated places; the essay subject shifts, altering the trajectory of the piece; the voice of a poem takes a turn that colors the experience of reading it. I have celebrated when this metamorphosis easily improved the writing, and I have despaired when it meant extensive revision. But as I’ve learned more about writing, I’ve come to believe this happens because of the mediating nature of language itself.
So often we speak of mediating in terms of position. A mediator stands between entities—people, experiences, world views—translating each to the other. Writing mediates between writer and readers. We complain when a medium (or the media) doesn’t translate verbatim. “They’re leaving out what he really said,” we say. “That isn’t what really happened.”
This comes from our mania for the “real”: reality television, films “based on real events,” and memoirs that will reveal, at last, the real story behind so-and-so’s life. The more neutral the mediator, the better, and what could be more neutral than “indisputable video evidence”? In sports, we want to see the replay before we believe that the winning basket left the player’s hand in time, or that the soccer ball fully entered the goal. We’ve become addicted to video clips that, unlike written representations, present what happened “unfiltered.” Or so we think.
But I’ve stopped thinking of mediating as neutral. Language has a long history all its own. Each word comes into being at a particular time for particular reasons, and as time has passes, so do the echoes and nuances of that word. In addition, each person’s encounter with a word differs from everyone else’s. Because of this, every reading of a text leaves some elements untranslated. The shift from one way of making meaning to another is always incomplete. To write and to read are like trying to reach through an opaque curtain to grasp an object I can’t see, that I can’t be sure even exists.
I can lament this as language’s failing or celebrate it as language’s power to redirect what it touches. The reader and I meet at the dual surfaces of the text: the side that I experience as its creator and the side that the reader experiences as co-creator. The reader doesn’t receive my writing; s/he creates it with me, in response to what I’ve written. The written text hovers between us, drawing us into collaboration.
The electric circuit between reader and writer that flows through words, syntax, content, and structure gives writing its power over us. It provides the energy that can make reading a book one of the most significant—even transformative—events in a human being’s life. Words have altered my values, my perspective, my actions, and even my identity. Sometimes I’ve encountered those words in the works of great writers; sometimes I’ve found them in the works of writers unknown or forgotten; I’ve even encountered and been surprised by them in my own prose and poetry. That is what keeps me reading and writing.