Reader,

The act of writing is "at once absurd and a means of understanding everyday human experience."

None of you will take issue with the second claim. We writers are a serious bunch, after all. When we sit down to write, we're not just scribbling. We're trying to make sense of this world, of our lives, of the hairy gentleman sitting next to us in Starbucks. It's why we all love E. M. Forster's dictum: "How do I know what I think till I see what I say?"

It's also why some of you were bothered by my first claim. Our words must mean more than initially meets the eye. Why else would we slave over sentences and sweat about which commas should go where? "It is no less difficult to write sentences in a recipe than sentences in Moby Dick," declares Annie Dillard. "So you might as well write Moby Dick."

Well, I disagree.

You could say it's because I don't care for Moby Dick and firmly believe that the so-called "great American novels" are overrated. You could also say it's because I never outgrew my teenage delight in being contrary. Both of those things could be true.

But pause a moment with me and consider what the act of writing looks like. I've been working on this email for thirty minutes or so. I've typed words, then deleted them, and then retyped others which I also deleted shortly thereafter. (Miraculously, I wrote that last sentence without reaching for the delete button.) Why? Because I'm trying to get the right squiggles in all the right places. And how do I know if I've got the right squiggles in the right places? By some inner ear that turns the squiggles into musical pictures. When that inner ear cringes, I have to make a judgment. Did I hit a sour note? Is my picture too bland? Do they combine to capture the feeling in my heart?

It's an undeniably absurd endeavor. Like trying to put a puzzle together with all the pieces facing the wrong side up. Like trying to identify shades of color in a black and white photo. Like trying to tell a worried king what he dreamed last night. Honestly, there are safer, more productive things to do. And yet, we wouldn't choose anything else.

If that's not the definition of absurdity, I don't know what is.

My opening quote was appropriated from Arthur Kirsch. However, when he wrote those words, he wasn't writing about writing. He was talking about something that many people take even more seriously: faith. It's his summary what W. H. Auden believed it means to be a devout Christian.

I was struck by that irreverent combination. (Remember, a sizable part of me is still a brooding teenager.) I think it applies to pretty much everything we value. It's why we send heart emojis. It's why colorful plates of food taste better than plain ones. It's why we stop and stare at Pepto Bismol-colored sunsets. Deep down, our hearts know that embracing absurdity is the only way to make sense of our existence.

And the same thing goes for our words.

Keep your stick on the ice.

Frank Ewert
Book Coach, Editor, and Recovering Puritan
Author of Embrace Your Writer's Block and Blue Ice​