In the history of ink, which is rapidly coming to an end, the
ancient world turns from the use of India ink to adopt sepia. Sepia is made
from the octopus, the squid & the cuttlefish. One curious property of the
cuttlefish is that, once dead, its body begins to glow. This mild
phosphorescence reaches its greatest intensity a few days after death, then
ebbs away as the body decays. You can read by this light. ~Srikanth Reddy
Last to be first, lose to find,
die to live. These, the paradoxes upon which we build our lives. It's
fascinating and mysterious to me.
This week, I read the above excerpt
from Facts for Visitors, which reminded
me of the paradoxes inherent in the life of a creative writer. We delve into
our pain and brokenness to create beauty. Sit sequestered for long periods of
time to help build human connectedness, the effects of which we seldom
see.
I love the image of death
creating the phosphorescence of words. There really is such a powerful, phosphorescent
quality to writing—we illuminate the inner workings of ourselves and the
contours of each moment to help others do the same.
It’s hard though, isn’t it? I really resonated with Sarah Schock’s
description of art the Editor’s Note of this spring’s Inkstone issue as something that requires a battering ram to the
heart. It hurts. And takes a lot of guts.
I just want to take a moment to thank you each of you for the
sacrifices represented in the pieces you have shared with me and others in our
classes. In this year’s classes especially, I have really seen you all (and the
others in those classes) step out and take deeper risks, growing in
vulnerability and a willingness to tackle the tough or taboo topics.
Seeing how much I’ve been personally impacted and blessed by
hearing from the depths of your experience has really challenged and inspired
me to pursue vulnerability myself. It’s such a profound blessing to realize
that you’re not alone. To understand yourself a bit more clearly through the
musings of someone else.
So, thank you for the courage that your writing this year required.
This will probably sound weirdly maternal or cliché, but I’m proud of you. As
Hougen says, you are beautiful people, more than you know. Please don’t ever
stop.
Although I haven’t had a chance to set and peruse the latest issue yet, I remember glancing at Sarah’s note. It’s really true that broken things make the most beautiful art. Specifically, it reminds me of a C.S. Lewis epigram that ends “our sincerest praise/
ReplyDeleteMeans, when all's said, 'You break my heart.’” I’ve seen that in my own tastes—my favorite stories and TV episodes are the ones that are absolutely heartbreaking.
I’d also like to echo your comments about sharing this experience. I really, really enjoyed working so closely with you all, and I will miss those of you who are graduating this spring (Sarah H, guess we’re still stuck with each other.) It was so cool to glance down the table of contents for this issue and recognize so many pieces, not only from this class but from others.
Now, back to the grueling treadmill of edits.
Aw, you guys! Don't make me cry! Ha ha, seriously though--what a beautiful post, Elizabeth. So eloquently said. (I think you should use the first part about paradoxes in another piece--it's that good!) As my college career comes to an end, I'm realizing just how much I've been impacted by not just Northwestern, and not just the English department, but all of my classmates specifically--I feel like we really are akin to iron sharpening iron. I know my writing wouldn't be where it is today if it weren't for all of you encouraging me to go deeper--and for myself witnessing you all doing that in your own pieces. So I'll echo both Elizabeth and Julie and say thanks--it's been so wonderful working with you all! Good luck to everyone as we push through the final stretch--can't wait to hear all of your presentations on Wednesday. :) (Though I can't say I'm ready myself...! Ahh!)
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