This week, I’ve been working to finish an essay. (Finish is not an accurate term. Is anything ever finished?) This particular piece has been bobbling around my mind for about a year and it will certainly go through some more revisions but I thought I’d share the process of its making.

I’ve been thinking about process on my morning walks. Rather, I’ve been talking to myself (literally, I shamefully admit) about what the essence of the piece is, about why I’m making it, what the message is meant to deliver, what it offers to the cultural dialogue, why I have authority to address these topics, and, finally, is it worth it? Worth your time, worth the disclosure of secrets, worth our energy. These are questions we should ask every time we make something. After these questions is the how. How can I achieve this multifaceted end?

A recurring thought has been that to document anything is inauthentic to reality. Particularly in this case, when the genre is memory-based. The mind is a fluid thing and thus memories change with each instance of remembering. When something is written, though, it is recorded. In ink. Giving a sense of permanency, of truth, of immobility. Socrates, I’ve read, did not believe in the recording of language because it created a sensation of being fixed; language is alive. So isn’t this entire pursuit an untruth?

One of my goals in making these essays is to record thought authentically, with minimal manipulation for the sake of the story. As such, when I finally decide to make something, I trust it implicitly; trust the concept, the unknown outcome, the process. In other words, I sit down, draw, revise slightly, draw more and ink. Then there is scanning, some digital editing and compilation into a book layout. Finally, I print. I work outside when possible, because everything is better outside.

I’m off to upstate for the weekend, to the Catskills, one of my favorite spaces on the planet. Pictures upon return.