Revision - Aug 8 2022

 

Revision

Aug 8 2022

The fact that I rewrote and revised,

tweaked, polished and agonized over

   —  countless rim-shots and misses and perfect swishes

of balled-up pages tossed

toward the bin across the room  —

my suicide note

says all you need to know.

That I'm obsessive.

A perfectionist.

Take my writing seriously.

That last words,

desperate pleas for understanding,

and abject apologies

  —   no matter how numb and fumble-mouthed you feel  —

to friends and loved ones

and ultimate judgement

are never to be rushed.

I know you're wondering

why you're reading this

if I did myself in.

I could make fun

and say because I couldn't get it right;

the words wouldn't come

the ending stunk.

But the real reason

is what I think most writers would give;

that I still

have too much to say

and need to work at saying it better.

That everything is material.

That no matter what

we care what others think.

That a good writer

never wastes words.

No waste, period.

This is not autobiographical. But when something I read stops me cold, and I immediately feel the gears turning and possibilities churning out, I can't resist noodling around and seeing where it takes me.

In the first paragraph of a personal essay about depression in the Atlantic (https://www.theatlantic.com/ideas/archive/2022/08/depression-treatment-suicide/661319/), Jeff Ruoff wrote this:

At my desk, I had written and torn up numerous letters to my wife, Glennis, and our daughter, the essence that they remained my be-all and end-all, above and beyond any actions I might take. I realized that no suicide note could alleviate their grief, but—always a perfectionist—I kept polishing drafts.

I so identified with this. Because I hate putting anything down on the page under my name that I think lacks elegance and clarity, and wouldn't give pleasure to read; or at least keep the reader wanting to get to the next line, sentence, page. So even though it elicited a chuckle, the thought that a well-written suicide note was more valuable than life itself didn't seem so outlandish to me. He didn't care enough to live, but he did care what he left behind. For a true writer, a note scrawled in pencil on a torn envelope just wouldn't do, act of desperation or not!