I once asked a local poet why she chose to be a writer. Her answer was a romantic one: she wrote not because she chose to write, she said, but because she had to write. In a way, she implied, writing and poetry chose her. I think I write because I love the whole exercise of it, and I do write because I choose to. Yet in a sense, I can understand her meaning. She was speaking of being chosen for a calling. The voice of the Muse is irresistible, and any artist will tell you that. I look at calling in this way. As a Christian, I am called too, but my Muse or Caller is God, who himself made me according to specifications needful for fulfilling the vocation of writer. There are no overly romantic tones to this view. I am simply a clay pot made for a particular purpose.
The fact is, I enjoy being a writing clay pot. I cannot think of a time when writing was a bad thing for me. In addition to wanting to be a sailor, my other childhood ambition was to be a writer. Of course, I loved writing because I loved reading—the two do go together. Any essay entitled, “Why I Write” should be preceded by an essay entitled, “Why I Read.” I have to confess, I did not start out in life being an early reader. Unlike many anxiety-ridden children today, I was given a great deal of freedom as a child to range the compound grounds of the huge and rambling house on stilts that we lived in. I was physically very active—none of the bespectacled and pale, nerdy type one hears described these days. “Play” was a word that was close to my heart, and I loved swimming, bicycling and running; also tree-climbing and kite-flying and top-spinning. I did not start reading seriously till I was about nine, which must mean that I was a late bloomer. The first “serious” book I read was something by Enid Blyton. My sister had borrowed it from her school library, and she only lent it to me to keep me from pestering her because I was bored. By the time I finished reading it, however, I sort of knew I was hooked. From then on, it was just a matter of time before I consumed the classics. Of course, this was greatly facilitated by my father’s extensive library of books. When I was in sixth form, I had some incredible teachers who introduced me to literature beyond the 19th century and extended my understanding of life and philosophy. They were such cool cats! My major at university was obviously Literature (with the “l” capitalized). I don’t think I have stopped reading yet.
From reading to writing is the merest small step, but a necessary one. The whole thought of being possessed of a voice and having the right to be heard is a deeply ingrained and fundamental need for me. Writing provides that context and outlet. Elizabeth Bowen, an Anglo-Irish writer, once said that writing was probably the most immediate relation the writing individual had with society. She is right in that there is, at once, an intimacy forged between writer and reader via the printed word that needs the cultivation of years in other relational contexts. Self-disclosure always presupposes vulnerability and a willingness to be open, to be received or rejected. The reader and writer enter into an intense relationship that requires both parties to be vulnerable and honest with each other. Here is the writer exposing his deepest and perhaps darkest thoughts; here is the reader letting down his defenses to listen with the kind of hearing that is attentive and engaged.
The process of writing is such that the exercise is often visceral as well as being a thing of the mind. In short, your whole person is involved that you cannot distinguish between the mental and the emotional. People like to make distinctions where there are none. In fact, when I write, I am completely absorbed in it because even my body participates in it. That is how I normally function. It is true that one thinks with one’s furrowed brow and pensive face as much as with one’s brain. Rodin’s “The Thinker” tells us that much.
When I start to write, I know that it will be a lengthy affair requiring focus, physical ease and comfort, alertness and personal as well as physical space. Usually, I begin by clearing my table, which is often less than admirable in the neatness stakes. That is as symbolic a gesture as it gets, because I am telling myself to clear some mental and physical space in order to start a new project. Clearing space means that I have to make room for new thoughts, new words, to preoccupy my mind’s landscape. It means a focus that will have to push out other things which will only be distracting to my main purpose. It is a matter of streamlining events and occasions so that this one thing will have my attention and energy. Sometimes, this is not as easy to achieve as it looks, because a host of other things demand my attention, and are important matters too.
In the past, when I had more energy and less wisdom, I would take an early breakfast, sit at my typewriter and write till evening without stop. I would carry on in this fashion till I was done, usually in a week’s time, after which I would crash and not write anything for the next few weeks. I no longer follow such a demanding and exhausting routine. These days, I still pay attention to my personal rhythms, which may not adhere to external social rhythms, but I have learnt to temper my own excesses so that I have more room to take a break and remember to be human …
Why I pushed myself in the past was because I knew that once I had begun to write, I had to finish things while my concentration was at its highest. It was impossible then to establish a kind of nine to five routine on a sustained and daily basis. Nowadays, establishing a daily routine is more possible as a compromise, and it means that some days are spent just reading before writing; some days are spent just thinking and incubating ideas before writing; some days are spent writing. When I am at the reading stage, it appears as if I am doing nothing but reading indolently for sheer pleasure. At the incubation stage, I am totally idle, the very embodiment of the lotus eater. At the writing stage, my nearest and dearest kin is my laptop. This is when I am most prolific, but I have learned, even at such times, to discipline myself enough to maintain physical well-being by observing mealtimes, engaging in social activities, and regularly breaking away from writing whether I want to or not. I think I am a fairly disciplined person, and I have few romantic notions about the creative juices overflowing to the point where I am no longer in control of the writing process. I do recall Paul’s instructions regarding the spirit of prophecy, that the prophet is in control of his own outpourings! Admittedly, I cannot observe the routines that other more normal people are asked to follow. I have also come to accept that there are certain personal rhythms that I respond best to, and that make me effective in my writing output. My redeeming point as far as people are concerned is that I usually deliver on time if not before my deadline.
Writing is a part of my life that gives me a sense of satisfaction. I find that each undertaking is enriching to myself, not only in the finished piece of work, but also in the struggle with ideas, the self-editing and self-criticism, the polishing and refining, and finally, the rewriting and rethinking post-editorial blue pencil. But these are all part of the whole process and experiment, part of the whole shebang, as Steinbeck would have put it. In the end, I suppose writing is an experiment in living. No individual piece of work is an isolated entry by itself; rather, it is part of a developing picture. When I look back at the things I wrote about at certain periods of my growth, I see the hand of God at work in shaping and moulding my mind. It is amazing how the writing life comments so incisively on so many other things going on in life—it is sometimes almost prophetic!
I would like to write till there is nothing left to say. Jesus pointed out that there would be such a day when all work would be laid down, and God would call into being a time of Sabbath rest. But until then, the writerly life is, to me, a life where labour is exacting but fruitful, disciplining but sustaining, stern but true. Until then, many words need to be crafted and formed into thoughtful lines that weave a tale worth reading: there is still much more that needs telling. If for nothing else but that, I would like to write till there is nothing left to say.
