Like flying, writing is learned by launching. Like the birds that come with the instruments in the suitcase of the wings, whoever writes comes equipped with two essential tools: something to say and a visceral need to say it. And the rest, as the Guatemalan Monterroso would say, paraphrasing the British Shakespeare, the rest is silence. In other words, if you already have something to say and it stings you to say it, don’t ask for anything else. Fly. Scribe.
How do birds fly? They start by watching their parent birds fly and have an overwhelming urge to do the same. How do writers write? They begin by seeing writing (that is, reading) and they have an overwhelming urge to write. But unlike birds that mimic their ancestors by replicating every minute detail in their flight, writers are forced to teach themselves. And that is the most fascinating thing about literature. Each one determines, by trial and error, to rise and fall, to tears and joy, their own writing. Everyone is taught to fly confident in the stubbornness of their tools. And, although he wants to convince himself that he is following authors, protocols, styles or schools, sooner or later the personal truth in his writing is installed. That is to say, his own way of crossing the firmament, his own turns, cadences, reaches, trills, shouts and silences. Without forgetting that, like the birds, not everything is air, because the food is on the ground. Not everything is the ecstasy of finding the wonderful phrase, because the material is on earth: in humble everyday life. Teach yourself to fly. How? Flying. Writing. Writing. Writing.
Eugenia Gallardo
17 October 2022
Raleigh NC
