I briefly clear the desk and sit in front of it. The act of sitting at a desk itself expresses the will to read or do something. Even if one is merely surfing the internet, lying in bed means holding a phone, while sitting at a desk at least requires choosing whether to use the computer or the phone. Things that can only be done on a computer are decreasing, but some still remain, so sitting at a desk is still a symbol of will.
For me, sitting at a desk means that. Writing something or reading something. Since my computer is a tablet running Windows, not every computer task requires a desk, but reading a book and writing something must be done at a desk. As for books, I often reread books I liked rather than always reading new ones, so I may not fall into the category of reading a lot. Even so, I insist on reading seriously at the desk each time. Writing is the same. If you ask whether that produces anything great, I have nothing to say, but if I want to keep writing, I cannot help it.
It was the same when I used notebooks. Outside, I could write perfectly well leaning on a stair railing, but once I came home, I had to sit at the desk. Since elementary school I thought writing was fun, but whenever people saw me writing and asked to read it, then said it was not fun, badly written, or strange in some part, I would stop entirely for a year or two, put it away, then pull it out and try again once I had forgotten. So if I gathered all the private writing I did through twelve years of elementary, middle, and high school, it would probably amount to only about a month. After becoming an adult and starting to scribble in notebooks, I never showed it to anyone, but I think I became more afraid and more serious because I never knew when, or for what reason, I might again stop wanting to write.
It is the same now. Outside I scribble easily on my phone, but at home that does not work. I may think, “Let me write about such and such,” but once the sentence about that subject ends, I cannot continue. Yet if I touch it little by little, like trying to get a wary cat to finally put its mouth to a treat even after it suspects the food is a trap, a story eventually forms.
If I had written happily with no feedback, I think by now I would have either abandoned all lingering attachment to writing or made writing my work. But the amount and period of writing I have done are absolutely small, so I remain in a state where even I do not know myself well, and where even after rereading, I cannot clearly find the features of my style. That is why I sit at the desk and write one sentence at a time, as if practicing seriously, following thought carefully. When the writing ends at the right time, not too quickly, I feel proud alone, and so I write while laying beneath me the hope that things will continue to unfold well.
I do not know how much I must write before I understand my own writing. I do not know how much I must write before I can tell myself I no longer need to be so cautious, that I may ignore the danger of crossing a fragile glass bridge hidden behind joy. What I can do now is keep showing my writing only to people I do not know, people whose criticism I do not need to take to heart, and not expect feedback from acquaintances. No, that is all I can think of. It is time I understood that not stepping on my own will to write is my responsibility. Perhaps the moment when I write more about things other than the fact that writing itself is enjoyable will be the moment when such caution is no longer necessary.
I woke early for something, slept again, and thought I had gone to work well, but perhaps fatigue had accumulated more than I realized. The morning sunlight had felt truly spring-like and made me happy, yet now that the sun has set and evening has come, I feel this discouraged.
Original Korean article: 쌓여가는 글