Literature is such a very beautiful thing, even when it depicts the most grotesque horrors and intense misery that humankind could ever know. But there is ugliness to be found in the actual act of writing. Producing groups of sentences that become paragraphs that become chapters in one seamless story is much like producing a film, frame by frame, the filming of which finds the actors and crew anxious, exhausted, yet forced to be their very best.
When I write, I try to read my words as if I knew them to be written by someone else. I do this not for the sake of being objective about my work (I do not believe that such a thing is possible for any writer, sans one suffering from an unfortunate and severe case of either schizophrenia or short-term memory loss), I do this in order to try to forget the horrors of my own mind.
I try to create a blank slate in my mind, free of the anxiety and self-doubt of the individual who put those words on paper months, days, or in many cases mere moments before. I want to remove myself from her racing mind, racing through several details of life simultaneously, both petty and pressing. I want to quiet the sounds in her mind that are reminiscent of a 50-toddler strong temper tantrum.
I cannot be calm, quiet, and 100% focused. Even when I appear to be, even when I am immersed in my writing, I will be making grocery lists at the back of my mind, forcing my mighty memory to retain the names of songs that I need to download, and even thinking about other writing projects as my hands move rhythmically across the keyboard.
This is ugly. Trying to be completely focused and always, always failing is ugly. But when I read something that I wrote and I love it, when others read it and it moves them, therein lies the beauty.