This is the product of one of the writing exercises I learned from the Personal Essay class I attend on Tuesdays. It’s nothing profound or glorious, and it’s yet unedited, but it does have something about it that I like. I like it enough to hope that you like it too.
Copyright © 2006 Philip Mohr.“An Essay”
I have this little dilemma. I want to tell you something, but I don’t know what you want. I want to inspire you, but I don’t know how you think. I want to help you, but I don’t know what’s wrong. I want to show you love, but I don’t even know your name.
And then as I think, I realize I don’t need to know your name. I don’t need to know what’s wrong in your life, or how you think, or what you want me to tell you. Why do I always care if what I want to tell will be received well or not? I do care about you, but my love doesn’t depend on you or how you feel.
How many times have I tried to tell you something? There’s an element of writer’s block that has crept in somewhere over the years. Not a lack of ideas or decent words to use. I simply couldn’t write—no, I simply wouldn’t write what I wanted to write because it never came out perfect. Perfect is what you deserve. But I’m not perfect. I stopped trying a while ago. No, instead you’ll find that I’m quite imperfect. It’s humiliating, and now I notice that humility is something I’ve forgotten.
I think it happened over the course of a few years; I slowly let my pride whelm the river’s banks. It was in high school, I’m sure, as I underwent the slow, meticulous, state-sponsored destruction of language, of honesty and virtue in prose. They taught me how to write an essay with ideal format, no personal voice, impeccable grammar, plain usage, every statement supported by at least three pieces of evidence. When I wrote, I was never wrong. They wouldn’t let me err. My essays were perfect, and I was perfect.
And then suddenly, when I sat down to write for you instead of them, I didn’t have a thesis, a format, or a rubric. I was going to tell you a story, and then I remembered they told me you don’t exist, and neither do I. Otherwise the essay wouldn’t be perfect, because I am imperfect, and you would suffer to read my flaws.
What a waste of time! If I want to tell you something, it better be interesting. If I want to inspire you, I need to be fearless. If I want to help you, I can’t have problems. If I want to show you love, I need to be perfect. Right?
Amidst the teachings to strive for excellence and conquer my flesh and stand strong despite my shaking legs, I somehow mixed perfection in there. Looking back, I can’t remember anyone telling me to be perfect. I can’t remember God expecting me to be faultless—quite the opposite! No, certainly my parents never put that thought into my head. Who told me that I’m only worthwhile if I’m perfect? Where did that come from? There’s no point in blaming anyone, but the point of the question, I think, is that there’s no one to blame except myself, and maybe those hideous high school essays.
Yes, I’ve decided now that I’m going to write an essay for you soon. You may not like it, and you may be appalled, but I do truly want to tell you something, and inspire you and help you if I can. And written or not, love is always there. So if you will, please read what I want to tell you—things only an imperfect man can write.
(All comments and emendations welcome.)
1 comment:
Oh, but I think I DID tell you you were perfect-- just the way you are :-)
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