The Downside

The downside to writing is that it forces you to think. And it's not like you can choose not to write - who you are becomes bound up in pen and ink.

So you're stuck. Words whirl through you, plucking knowledge from the air and waving it in front of your face, even though you were trying-to-ignore-that-particular-factoid-thank-you-ever-so-much. The words give form to every truth you didn't want to admit.

"Here are the roots of things," writing points out, brandishing a word in the direction of the ground. "They're ugly and tangled up in each other, inextricably connected to each other and to you. And the farther down you dig, the more of them you'll find."

I should be awestruck, grateful. Writing is showing me something incredible, the universal bones that most people never see. But I am only frustrated, agitated. The ability is an obligation.

Because the first layer of roots does not belong to the wider world - it belongs to you.

The downside of writing is that it forces you to know things. And it's not like you can choose what you know - who you are is the first lesson you have to learn before you can even begin to grow.