The ache of turning life into art

For the past week, I've been engaged in writing, and then editing, a story.

The narrative of a relationship that shattered on the rocks of history and habit, it is purely non-fiction.

I've never been good at writing fiction. For some reason, as I have said here before, my voice sounds mannered and artificial.

The more I write commentaries, the leaner my prose becomes (or at least, that's my intention).  Not quite Hemingway -- but certainly not Henry James.

Hemingway...James...I'm abashed by my own humility.

With all due gravitas, I'm trying to teach my son not to torture his adjectives. Sentences don't need to be as Baroque as a Bach chorale.

Cranking out those commentaries is a piece of cake, compared to what I've been doing this past week.

Each word is like a drop of blood on the screen, bringing back moments of hope, sadness, incredulity, and disappointment.

At the same time, the product is not bad. In fact, it might be better than "not bad." We'll see. I'm shopping it around now.

Writing about a relationship that didn't work out, one in which the other person's behavior profoundly hurt you, can be cathartic.

I write because I can. I use words because I have no other language right now. 

I create sentences like spiderwebs because I must.

And yet I would tear up what I have, gladly, if I could have had the resolution I crave.

This, at least for now -- this must be it.