"To write is to bleed..."

      Ernest Hemingway once said this, “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” How dark and demented. What in this statement is appealing? A writer writes for purposes that only he understands, but that writer is also human, and what human actually wants to bleed for the sake of being understood? Macklemore raps that, “The greats weren't great because at birth they could paint. The greats were great cause they paint a lot.” Such can be said for a writer. How often on a forum do you see a famous author answering the question, “What can I do to become like you: famous?” The answer invariably is: write. Just write. Write everyday. Write when you don’t want to write. Write when you have nothing to say. Just create something with your thoughts and words. Write.
      But damn! That is exhausting. Hemingway and Macklemore, two creators of the written word that have transformed generations of people, took the proverbial knife to their skin and wrote the words on their flesh like paper or perhaps dug the knife deep and bled their hearts creating immortality. Ovid set out to be immortal and succeeded, but at what cost? Losing his country, a fate he thought worse than a murderers. So, at what cost does a writer cease to care of what his peers think of him and just write for the sake of the truth? And by whose truth does a writer write? His own? Then by what drives his truth? His morals or ethics?
      I recently had a conversation with a dear friend of what drives us. Not necessarily as writers, but as humans. She put it to me like this: “We are both ethical people, but what drives us differs. You are driven by your ethical standards of which you line up according to your religion, and mine lines up according to my own standards.” When I later thought of this in the area of writing, it made sense. I do write with my own personal ethics, but I would also say that my writing is not always based on my religion. Which makes me hope that my ethics are a clear representation of myself. I can only hope. And I can only hope that when- and if-I bleed, I bleed according to my standards.
     But that’s the problem, it isn’t always easy to write even if my ethical standards are pouring out of my every breath. I find that when I have nothing to say nothing comes out. How many hundreds of pages have I written? How many thousands of blank words have come out of my head onto a page for the sake of filling up a page quota? For what purpose? No longer am I bound by the sake of getting a grade. No longer am I bound by a professor’s agenda or topic. No, I am no longer bound to achieving a grade for the sake of writing. However, if I think about it, I was never bound. But the addendum to writing that I should have done, personal writing that is, is no longer an addendum, but a focal point of survival.
     When I was younger, I used to journal...every day. I would write and write and write about nothing. And it wasn’t that I loved it, in fact, most of the time I hated the chore, but looking back I miss it. I miss that habit; it bettered me without me even knowing. I had a much better handle on my world when I would put pen to paper, if only to calculate my own dramatic life.
And now, I see the accuracy of Hemingway so much more clearly. I do bleed when I write. We all bleed. We all lose a little of our life to create something for ourselves and others. So, if you see drops of crimson intermingled with my words you will know that I am doing nothing but what I set out to do: give of my life’s blood...giving of myself. And if I could ask one thing: tread lightly or don't. I suppose the choice is yours.