A Writer’s Inner Life – Cat Robson: “My hunger to write continues.”
In spite of myself, my hunger to write continues. Like a rogue wave, determined to hold up the meaning of my life against the undertow of my culture, my past, and my family’s fundamentalism, it surges and ebbs. I want to trust it.
To be carried into the deeper waters of the things I do not understand, to let the questions remain unanswered. I’ve stood too long on the shore, hoping to feel capable, hoping for the authority to speak, the confidence to pit myself against all the rigid certainty of my past.
I’ve been waiting to be transformed into a Borzoi of a writer. Sleek, refined, reserved and competent. Unconcerned with the approval of others. Instead, I’m a gangly golden retriever, rocking and swamping my little boat.
Eager, boundlessly expressive, full of hyperbole, and loving – above all, loving – everyone and everything because they’re here, because they’re fleeting, because I can.
From essay Why I Don’t Write – by Cat Robson
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Related pages:
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