The Human Touch

The story is dramatic, with a protagonist full of aching desire in a scene filled with suspense and obstacles. The conflict is lingering beneath the surface, not yet visible to the naked eye, but so close that it could burst out at any moment, changing all narrative parameters, culminating in the final plot twist. The reader is left breathless by the pace of the events, turning the pages with glassy eyes, the light from their bedside lamp a single warm circle on the wall as they dive into the pages. It is late at night, but the beautifully crafted words tie them to the story, and in wanting to know more, they lose themselves in the mind and body of a character that will never exist beyond these pages. Ah, the beauty of the craft. 

Sadly, that is not how it goes. The few words I have managed to note down on the page seem lonely, only sharp black symbols on an endless white tableau, without any meaning beyond the one I can vaguely construct in my head. My back aches from sitting in the same wooden chair since morning, the cup of coffee on the table gone cold now and leaving stains in the mug, the browning remains of an apple sitting on a plate. It is chilly in the apartment, and I sit wrapped in a wool blanket that scratches my skin every time I move. I stare at the screen for minutes, waiting until it turns dark, and then move my fingers on the keyboard as if I suddenly had an idea. I promised myself I would write, that I would find the essence of my human experience in words, but now that idea only seems laughable. 

Who is this story about? The characters aren’t alive on the page, they are just shadows of people I have seen; colleagues, old friends, family members, strangers riding on the bus I take to work. I see them every day, yet the attempt of telling their stories fails. Their voices are distant, intangible, like an echo of reality I can’t quite remember. If they are speaking to me, their words are inaudible or in a different language altogether. Who are you? I want to ask, but the main characters twist and turn in my hands as I try to get a hold of them, running through my fingers like sand. Are you an old woman? A young boy? An animal, a park bench, a house? I want to know, are you real, have I met you before? Or are you just a figment of my imagination? They don’t answer, and the dark letters on the page become desperate and cynical without a protagonist to center around. I lose someone I have never met in failing to grasp who they are, and the life of a writer appears pointless without their company. 

So, I describe what I can’t see, useless details that hold no meaning, no conflict, no hint as to what the story could be about. The sky is blue. The moon is shining. The bar is empty. The people are laughing as they grab another drink. None of it makes sense, none of it seems even remotely essential to the story I thought I wanted to tell. What even is the scene? Is it a conversation between two friends, or a moment alone, the character silently pondering over a big decision? Is it a group dynamic, a love triangle, a sex scene? All of the above? I run my hands over my face, trace the lines around my eyes, and close them as if to shield myself from the words I have conjured up myself. Maybe I should stop. Maybe writing isn’t what I should be doing with the limited time I spend on Earth, maybe attempting to preserve my own existence in words is simply tasteless and pathetic. There are so many things I could be doing instead, even should be doing rather than giving my time and energy to a story that may never become one. I could go for a walk, do my taxes, prepare dinner, make important phone calls, do laundry, meet with real people instead of designing fake ones on a page. Listen to what they tell me about their lives in the real world, about the problems, the joys, the disappointments, and surprises of existing every day. I could tell them about my own life, about what I had for breakfast, about my job, about summer plans and music and nature and mutual acquaintances. I sigh, and the day suddenly feels very long. I can’t remember why I am sitting here, surrounded only by my own thoughts. Why do I write? Why is there an unmistakable magnetism towards the empty page, towards the possibility of stories that hide beneath the white canvas? Why is there a satisfaction of finishing a piece despite its flaws and mismatched words, despite the tingling feeling in my hands after typing for too long? Why do I wonder what you will think when you read this, where you will be, and if the words will leave you in anticipation and awe for the next scene? Why does it matter to me what real people think of the characters I create, of their flaws, their strengths, their conflicts, and their lives that have originated from my imagination? Why do I write? 

I write because it’s human, the need to share stories so primal, so everlasting, so distinctly mortal and anthropological. Telling stories is the anchor that keeps me grounded to the human foundation that is the connection with one another. We experience connection, write about it, share it, and receive more in return. So, ultimately, the characters I create, the conflict I fabricate, and the words I choose to describe it all to you are just instruments in the search for the humanity in writing. For the search of the human touch, the only thing it takes to keep the reader close until the very last word.