I once came upon a
theory that the human heart has a certain, more-or-less set number of
heartbeats it can deliver. This number acts as an upper limit. Once you use up
your allotted beats, that’s it! A belief in this theory can be developed into
an argument against exercise, or any other form of exertion or excitement that
gets the heart palpitating. Running for the bus, scary movies and roller-coaster
rides, even orgasms, would take minutes (and cumulatively, days, months, years)
off of your life span. On the other hand, regular exercise that improves
conditioning has the effect of lowering one’s resting or low-activity pulse
rate.
I don’t know if there’s
anything to this, but it’s got me speculating about writing from a different
angle. I’ve been writing my
entire life. Is there a set limit on the words I have allotted to me. Will I
reach a point where the words just stop coming?
My experience of how my
writing has shifted over the years lends credibility to the notion of a limit
on words over a period of time, if not an entire lifetime. As a student, I
wrote a lot for school. But then I stopped being a student. And what happened?
I began journaling. In fact, I began my first journal the very month that I
dropped out of university. And – though with a fluctuating regularity – I kept
journaling for decades. And then, I stopped. And the end of journaling
coincides pretty closely with the time I started blogging. Actually, all this
suggests not only an upper limit, but also a lower limit on words. It’s never
really rung true to me, but maybe there’s something to the notion that writers
write because they have to.
As one who aspired (and
still do) to make a career of writing, I’ve always lamented that I write so little.
But this self-assessment is based largely on valuing some writing and devaluing
other writing. I’ve only had six pieces of writing make it into print, in a
publication available to the public, bearing my name, for which I received
compensation. That’s 2 short stories, one short-short, and three reflective
essays on social issues. It hasn’t been much of a career.
But there’s been so
much other writing. There are the boxes of writing bits and pieces accumulated
over the years of trying to develop my skills, voice, themes. There are the
many more boxfuls of material I discarded because I saw no value or promise in
them. There are the hundreds, maybe thousands of computer files, some on the
machine I’m using at this moment, but many abandoned with discarded, older
desktops and laptops and, yes, word processors, and likely never to be opened
again.
There has been lots of
work-related writing, too: case notes, proposals, minutes, agendas, lesson
plans, evaluations and the like. Some of this has been very important on a
personal level, both to me and to my clientele, and I’m as proud of some of it
as of anything else I’ve produced. This includes advocacy letters, case
summaries attempting to place the arc of a client’s journey into perspective,
documents weighing in on program and community issues, or responding to a court
or police action and its effects.
Then, there’s the truly
personal writing. The emails and letters – occasionally, a poem – to loved
ones. Sometimes, I’ve written a letter that has all of me in it, and those instances
are very much like the times I’ve thrown myself into a piece of fiction or a creative
essay. Once, when I was trying very hard to push my writing to a higher/deeper
level, and was experiencing serious self-doubt, I dreamed an entire story. I
lived it as I slept, and I awoke with it fresh and vivid in my mind, and ready
to pour out onto the page. Another time, while composing a letter/poem to a
woman I was deeply in love with, I spent a night of drifting in and out of
sleep, rising to consciousness ever so often with words and sentences and small
edits. These were instances when I felt almost consumed by the act of writing, like
I was disappearing into it. And yet, feeling complete, and nourished and
expanded by the experience, which is perhaps what death – that final
consummation – is all about.
Certainly, this side of
Life is finite. There comes an end to heartbeats and to words, whether
measurable or not, whether foreseeable or not. But I’m finding something
beautiful here as I contemplate it. In the context of an expanding universe,
can death and other endings be seen as anything other than transitions? I don’t
know that it really matters. I’m not angling for a kind of pseudo-immortality
here. Maybe what I am angling for is a deep resonance, connective tissue, something
other than a tidy, summing up. After all, we don’t measure a lifetime by the
number of heartbeats. And we don’t weigh words in isolation.