Bleeding words: I write about why it’s hard to write

There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”―Ernest Hemingway

I may possibly not have the same relationship with bleeding as Ernest Hemingway. While I think he’s probably intending razor blades or knives, I’m getting tides, the moon and the leg-collapsing sensation of drawing down, an organic cycle that transcends choice, desire or need and isn’t very dramatic. But it’s true there’s nothing to this kind of bleeding.

And I really wish I could write that way. I really wish there were a running tap or a tide, because nothing to me is more perplexed, trammelled, stilted and stuttering than making the little ants march across the big white spaces. For me, writing is more like wading through waist-high sludge than opening a vein.

In that case, you might reasonably be wondering why I keep on trying. Byron (I love Byron – I don’t really like Hemingway) explained, ‘If I don’t write to empty my mind, I go mad.’ I feel that. I often empty my mind by moving these days, but it’s a different kind of emptying. Byron is right: there’s something cathartic in tipping out the trash can. At least then you can see what’s mouldering and mulching; it’s no longer silently doing its inexorable organic thing inside your head. There’s a satisfying sense of compensatory aesthetic control when the inchoate is mustered and corralled, penned into neat black lines and grammatical structures – even if all they really do is frame its essential wildness.

But for me it’s not enough just to quietly lasso a few horses. I have this desperate need to be heard, seen and truly apprehended, to know that I am not sifting away like sand through an egg-timer. It’s as if some maniacal little Führer in my head is constantly yelling, ‘Listen, all of you! Listen! Just listen! LISTEN!’ Because otherwise I don’t exist. I’m whirling and whirling away, down the plughole, over the event horizon.

So, start where you are and all that, I thought I’d excavate it a bit, this feeling: the wool in my mouth, the thick tongue, gagging, choking. Just why is it so fucking difficult? Just why?

The thing is, when I write, I do feel as if my life depends upon it, and it depends upon it being good – so I have very high standards. It has to sing for me; it can’t clunk or collapse with an exhausted sigh. Writing is something I do well or I don’t do at all – which you can see is a crippling position to begin from. Who the hell can write like that? Like it has to be perfectly finished before it’s even started?

In some ways, this urgency, this sense of life-depends-upon, begins in a response to my neurology. I think in images. I see my thoughts, all of them, and then translate them into words. A writer friend – neurotypical – once told me she was envious of what she saw as my ability to generate images in poetry. I wanted to explain to her that I don’t have to generate anything. The inside of my head is an overwhelming prolixity of multi-layered and inter-penetrating images. Images are for me the ground of consciousness. The difficulty is in sifting and sorting. It requires a huge amount of executive function, and if you’re autistic, you don’t have a lot of executive function.

The first time I heard an autistic person describe the way they think as a movie, I was puzzled. Why was this something that needed explaining? How else was there to think? I still find it difficult to imagine what it’s like to think in words or how it’s even possible. Words seem such a sophisticated product of consciousness, like an aeroplane or the iPhone, so removed from the primal mud of the source. How can they arise pristine and fully formed?

I love films (actual ones), especially when they create their own landscape and communicate mostly through it. They are for me a form of direct apprehension: visual to visual. It’s a jaw-unhingeing relaxation to inhabit this kind of instantaneous world in which meaning presses through the surface like colours in a dirty sponge and soaks unmediated into my consciousness. Sponge to sponge.

When I write, there has to be the interpolation of another surface, one that must be negotiated and surmounted, and with it comes a sense of impotence. The thing is, when you think in images, so much of everything that matters – detail, colouration, mood, tone, and a kind of slidingness between one thing and another that allows for multiplicity, for more than one thing to be true at the same time and for everything to be connected to everything else – so much of this slips though the spaces between the words, leaving you with something at best diminished, at worst tangential to its actual meaning or signifying absolutely bloody nothing.

I also feel in images. My emotional experience happens in intense, rich, brightly coloured moving pictures, saturated with metaphorical meaning. I am one of those autistic people who experiences an overwhelming amount of emotion (whereas others report feeling almost no emotion at all). There’s so much going on in here that I often feel in danger of drowning in myself, and I struggle to experience a sense of containment. Like many autistic people, I find it difficult to name and categorise emotion. Partly, this seems to be due to the sheer volume of it happening all the time. Partly, it seems to devolve from the fact that no words have been coined for many of the emotions I see-feel. They exist like outlaws beyond what is languaged, defined and accepted as a known emotional experience. I need fifty words for snow. These days, given time (I’ve practised a lot), I can usually match what I see roughly to a fully accredited word for a feeling, but it’s a very broad category that loses much of the particularity, aesthetic wonder and intensity of the actual emotion. It communicates a lot less than it leaves out, and this is mightily frustrating.

There’s something else too. It’s biographical. I came to dance, but in my family dancing was considered a bit like masturbating – embarrassing and better done behind closed doors. So while I was always a secret dancer, writing became my first public practice and discipline, the first expressive form where I was witnessed. It also became the dungeon where my dancer was tied up and hidden. While I have set her fully at liberty in the world (another story), writing continues to be freighted for me with the frustration, limitation, dislocation / relocation of something that is not my first means but which had to be reached for, manipulated into. Maybe that’s why dancing is indeed for me like Hemingway bleeding: an open vein, a running tap.

Just lately I allowed myself to notice something else: writing and reading are erotic experiences. It’s the name I didn’t name of that intensity of being intimately read – by school English teachers and onwards to mentors and lovers I’ve written to. While I was fiddling around, turning the compost for this article ­– writer’s fore-play, essential to the writing act – I typed some words I like by Matthew Remski:

Language is continually overflowing its consensus meanings … When we use it playfully, it co-creates with us. But when we domesticate it to a conceptual purpose, our most serious grammar and richest vocabularies become very fragile nets through which most of the world escapes.

And as I typed, I was overtaken by this swoony, vertiginous feeling, of one thing collapsing into another – time, space and personhood. And for a moment I could not quite recollect … Who do these words belong to? To me? To you? Where did they come from? And I wondered, do you press through into another person’s consciousness when you re-write their words? Do you? Is it like lying naked, mind to mind, but still essentially unknowable? Are words really sex? Did my family get it all wrong?

And somehow I waded through the mud to the end – and the bit of writing I really love: polishing, refining. I’m autistic; I’m a details person. I have no eye for the big picture, and the process of emerging a structure is laden with anxiety for me. I can’t always bear to stay present for it. It’s got better since I embraced the associative nature of my thinking. I no longer look for lines, but drop in a pebble and follow the rippling out. And the rippling out and the rippling out … until the ripples dissolve into a sort of stillness.

threads of yoga, Matthew Remski, 2012.