The Words

Hubster and I watched an incredible film last night.

The Words.

Now, I know that the reviews didn't love this movie, but that's okay. I have found that reviews are often crap (it couldn't be anything to do with politics, rather than actual art), so it doesn't surprise me too much that we loved it. The cinematography was delightful and creative, the images across the screen lovely. The content was breathtaking and it drew you with a complexity of plot and emotion that I don't feel I often seen.

But really, it was storytelling, I believe, at its finest: it was sensual, lovely, heartbreaking, and honest. It was a writer's movie not only because the story centered around writers, but because it shot at the essence of a writer's being: the urge, the desire, the need to create; and the sometimes all-encompassing fear that goes along with that. It hit on the need to write something good, to touch someone else's life the way a piece of writing has touched yours. It also hit on the flip side of that coin: the terror that you are not good enough to write something like that.

I don't want to ruin the film, but I loved the underlying message: at what price will you pay to gain the admiration you desire as a writer? Is there a price to high? This film seemed to think so, and I do to. I love how things in life seem to happen at the appropriate time, because I have been thinking along these same lines lately. I have a manuscript deadline for an agent (she found me last summer at a conference) coming right up. And now that school is out, I have turned most of my energy and attention to working on this manuscript, since I have to send it to her in July. This won't be the first agent that I have submitted to, and while I hope it will be the last, I hold a little place in my mind in reserve for the fact that it might not be. Yet no matter how many rejection letters you get, there is still a sting to them that never really goes away. I often comfort myself thinking about how incredible it will feel when I finally do get the big yes. But I also comfort myself with thinking about the fact that I do have something to say. And being a writer means, I will keep on saying it, even if there aren't a ton of people to read it.

The writing I do has value in and unto itself, and it has value to me. I don't need an agent or fame to make that so. I need an agent and/or fame to make a living at it, but not to keep on being a writer. So I continue on, despite the low lows that make me feel like I should never write again, and I enjoy the high highs when feel that every word that I type is brilliant (it's a good but deceiving feeling, since editing is a crucial step).

And I try to remind myself that no matter what, I am a writer. And that's a gift enough, though an agent and publisher and hard cover books in a store would be nice too.