It wasn't only a question of what drove a story, what gave it interest and intrigue, but what established the narrative itself, allowing it to come into being. I asked if it had to be a cohesive whole. Did we demand something that was coherent, reliable in its logic, lucid in the rationale it put forth?
We talked about plot, mentioning the personal investment we applied to characters. I wasn't sure if I could let myself be this vulnerable, to dedicate myself to something without any certainty of the return.
We each relied upon an unchanging set of words, a vocabulary particular to our own perception. I knew mine immediately; I hovered around the same grouping, depending upon the accuracy, honesty, and authenticity with which they defined my experience. Render, weight, meaning, question. But did these convey my style, did this express something distinct about how I saw and understood it all?
Four hours later, I emerged without any answers, without any other words to describe the anxiety, the apprehension and angst in my approach. I was capable, sure, but it was with increasing doubt that I believed my pen to be exemplary of my enterprise.
When would I start writing about something?
Render, weight, meaning, question. Maybe the only way to move forward was through repetition.