A Realization
by Sarah Elisabeth
Intent. A writer needs it, craves it. I
cannot help but admit, however, that I’ve had difficulty conjuring up that kind
of zeal to write this essay. Intent implies direction and self-awareness. But
often I don’t know exactly where I want to go.
As
I read Atwood’s definition of “intent,” I found myself stirred with the very
feelings she described: eagerness and intensity. Good writing can do this; create
a maelstrom of inspiration in the breast. As a writer, I generally know the
“feel” I want for any given piece. I may not know exactly where the words will
take me, what they will become, but I do know how I want my reader to feel as
he or she reads. Does this intuitive approach suffice for intention? I
struggled with this as I thought about the kind of reviewer I wish to be. Doubt
creeps in and hisses that perhaps I am only fit to read words, and not to craft
them. And I respond with a small voice, “No. If I am lacking, I will learn.”
I
believe this instinctual disposition comes partially from my personality, – as
an intuitive and lamentably romantic person, I tend towards feelings and
abstractions – but also from a nature universally housed in creative writers. We
don’t tell, we show. We let the thoughts flow onto the page with little
inhibition.
I
remember, as a young girl, sitting in bed at night, weeping bitterly as I read
Poe’s Annabel Lee. I couldn’t have
given a sound reason for the response, but oh! The tragedy of love lost! Romantic,
childish, tender heart! My notebooks then held many agonizing and italicized
entries and foppish poems. But between sentimental phrases, I find myself
reflected in the feel of it all, the
sincere and uninhibited yielding to emotion. I may have learned to channel
those emotions to greater depths, but I find that deep down I have not changed
a bit.
As
a writer, be it of articles or novels, I cannot avoid imbedding a piece of
myself within my words. Sometimes I feel that this is a wonderful thing. My sensitivity,
deep love of beauty, and wistful feelings may all be wound up between the
lines, like a golden thread. Yet there are those parts of me, those dark, or
simply hindering expressions of my personality, and these I fear. My tendency
to overly abstract, to drift into beauty aside from substance, to form my
opinions of things from an initial, intuitive feeling without reasons can suffocate
the things of substance in my writing. These habits must be weeded out and
pruned back. Those things of substance must be nourished if I am to write
clearly and well.
As
I write reviews I want to impress upon my reader the reasons for my critiques -
and I want them to be sound reasons. I want to leave them with something
substantial, leave them thought-provoked and satisfied. Reviews are all around
us in this modern age, and one can scarcely avoid hearing at least one
celebrity’s perspective before we read, view, or buy. We check in to get the
latest Roger Ebert opinion, and browse online reviews before purchasing that
new book, purse, watch, or camera. Ordinarily the reader merely wants to be
informed: should I buy it/see it/read it, or not? But there are some reviews
that stick and are not easily forgotten. They are the reviews that are not
merely informative, but are creative themselves. Art about art. They tip the
scale one way or the other, not because of poorly articulated opinions, but
because their words ring deep and true. These are the reviews that enforce supple
intuition with a rational punch. And this is what I aspire to.
This
goal is lofty, requiring that I channel my creative instincts with foresight
and intent. And this intention must not be solely based upon the envisioned
“feel.” Intention demands that happy medium between intuition and
thoughtfulness. To write with intent seems to me difficult, if not downright
formidable. But there is hope, just as there was hope for the young girl,
red-eyed and lonesome, reading Poe in her bedroom.
And
I am lacking, but I will learn.
