The strange thing about writing a letter is that you can’t use filler phrases like ‘how are you’ and ‘swell weather we’re having tonight’ to take up air space. A letter has to be all content. That said, I find myself struggling to articulate why I sat down to write this in the first place—and so my mind turns to fluff, possibly in an effort to make me feel productive, and to trick me into thinking I’m using my time wisely, when really I’m just avoiding the real issue. Although, now I realize I’ve done exactly that without the benefit of pretending I didn’t realize I was doing it.
Let me start over. Another strange thing about letter-writing is I feel I have a lot to live up to. Some writers are more famous for their correspondence than their poetry or fiction. You read those letters in English class and dissect them like they were meant for English lessons, not someone’s brother or friend or lover. Those letters are all filled with profound thoughts on life—‘dear you,’ they say, ‘this is what I’ve learned since we last spoke. Thank goodness I have a friend like you who understands, even though so much of my writing is about loneliness.’ Personally, I’m not that close with anyone, nor have I ever felt compelled to write a letter and nor have I ever received a letter of that caliber. Maybe this is turning into one. If that’s true, then you readers are my close but distant friend who is tracking my personal progress from afar, to whom I turn when I have heavy things pressing down on me that can only be lifted by writing them down. That might not be too far off the mark.
It does help to write to an imagined audience—nothing personal, I know if you’re reading this you’re very real—who’s interested in my feelings, not my fiction. I do feel like you’re listening. Strange—this is the first time in years I’ve been able to write what I mean to say. My mind feels unified. Giving voice to confusion is calming. It’s like stepping back and letting the id take the pen, and doing so quiets it, while for years my ego has been struggling to take the reins, and only producing the most insufferable, vapid, tenuous storyline, with no relation to my world or my feelings, which begins the cycle of my feeling disconnected and fraudulent, which makes the subsequent writing worse. Anyway, thank you.
I suppose I should get to the point, even though by doing so I’m nearing the end of this meditative state I’ve found. My reason for writing at all is to tell you I’m going on a hiatus, both from writing fiction and editing the magazine.
Funny, as soon as I mention the magazine, my mind goes blank. I’d much rather stay here in this letter and continue talking to you as if you’re still reading, which may be presumptuous of me to imagine you still are. My mind is calmer when I’m not expected to do anything about the magazine. It is as if it stirs in me a whirlpool of confusion and stress, which blinds and impairs me. Which is why I’m leaving, temporarily, I hope. I do anticipate coming back, but who knows what will happen? Somehow I feel encouraged right now, knowing that I don’t have to choose between writing and sanity. I once thought all writing that mattered was fiction. Maybe this is why the Romantics were so in love with their letter-writing. For someone who is only good at writing, but no longer able to produce fiction, it’s not a bad option.
Gratefully,
Walter S.
