The below is a piece I published in Illumination on Medium a couple years ago. Some of the references are out of date. (I no longer work as a program manager, for instance.) The theme, however, has come up a couple times in the last week and I thought I would re-share it. I investigate the question: as writers are we more like construction workers building our scenes or striptease artists slowly revealing that which is essential?
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Sitting at my computer, I tuck a long lock behind my ear and gaze outward — nowhere — feeling a writer’s soul beat within my corporate chest. My readers don’t know this, but I’ve been wrestling for some time with a dual identity: the program manager me, skillfully working in the “real” world, doing a “real” job vs. the consciousness seeking, passionate “Zen Tantrika Witch” within.
Which am I? I wonder.
The blank page stares back at me fully clothed — hiding the potential answer.
A work email comes through noting a supplier will deliver parts on time. I cheerfully respond “Excellent!”
Meanwhile, the writer — the one paying attention, the conscious witness — notices that although alone in the room I smile while typing this, enlivened by the little interaction and truly excited the program remains on schedule. Interesting.
I shrug out of my sweater and return to writing.
Who am I?
These few typewritten words appear on the screen.
I glance at the clock, noting the time. My husband is about to come back from his appointment. We’ve made a soul-gazing meditation date for this afternoon. Calendared it in, actually. The Zen Tantrika Witch rubs her hands in juicy anticipation.
I chuckle inwardly as the writer takes notes, observing how all of my life, even that part firmly in the hands of Zen Tantrika Witch me, requires scheduling.
I pull my long dress over my head, getting ready for my upcoming date.
I read what I’ve written: Who am I?
Sitting in my lace panties and bra, my fingers suddenly fly across the keyboard as the truth of my being suddenly reveals itself in a sudden flash of insight:
I am neither a program manager, nor a Zen Tantrika Witch.
I am not my stressed outer self, or my calm inner self.
Those are just things I experience. I am something else altogether.
I am the witness — pure naked awareness passing through life
without judgment of good or bad, high or low.
The Writer as Striptease Artist
And then it hits me, why writing is such a gift to myself and to the world. Writing offers me a platform from which to observe the world, including myself. Writing teaches me to be curious, to pay attention to details, from physical characteristics to subtle feelings. The process of writing gets me closer to the witness — to my authentic being. And when I come from that place, in return, my writing is honest, raw, naked, alive, pulsing with frisson.
It dawns on me: we writers should not think of ourselves as scene builders at all, but rather striptease artists, ultimately using our words to reveal the very essence — the naked truth — of what we want our readers to take away — that which we have been silently observing all along. We write to entice our reader to come along, to be seduced, curious what more might be revealed, and perhaps in the process baring a bit of our own authentic selves as well.
Try this:
The next time you are facing a blank page to which you must add words. Stop. Rearrange your thinking. Instead of thinking from the perspective of “building a scene,” imagine, as you write, that each word or phrase you put on the page is designed to reveal more of that scene to your reader, slowly disclosing bits and pieces of critical content to the reader. Some words will show teasers of a physical description (not too much at once,) others will lay bare the thoughts and feelings motivating a character. For fun, think in terms of a striptease. What words or phrases might compel your reader to wait with anticipation for the next bit to be revealed — a full hip, a naked knee, a sultry glance beckoning “come hither” from beneath wispy bits of dark wavy hair. Does your scene leave your readers wanting more?
For extra credit, take a moment to tune into yourself as well. Notice the part of you that observes the world. What are the qualities of that witness? Can you witness yourself? Notice too how it benefits the writer to remain a little detached — not only is it a quality that keeps the critic at bay, but it also encourages an honest rendering of a scene. Writing does not have to be “acceptable” or “presentable” and, generally, is better when it is neither.
