iLiza's eyes

There is an Argentinian author named Manuel Puig who once told an interviewer about his struggles writing. He said he wrote everyday, and that he felt a strong urge to write, but that he had to force himself to sit down and do it. He said that every time he sat down to write it was a struggle: writing for him was a painful mess of forced creativity that he had to squeeze out of his pours for hours a day: something that he couldn't live without, but that would end up killing him anyway.

Sometimes I feel this way: an inner battle constantly seething between by desperate need to write and the pain that ensues while the words travel from my head to the page. What an exhausting endeavor the writer has; it's like catching boiling rice on a fork: we can scoop and scoop forever, in search of the words that describe the churning feeling inside, and must strugle with all our might to catch them and hold on the moment when they gurgle forth.

posted by iliza @ 12:26 AM