I often feel that I ruin moments and feelings when I talk about them, when I tell. I know that sounds strange for a writer to say, but writing comes easier to me than speaking. Experiences are pure, and my talking about them feels like a taint. I am not a good speaker. I talk too fast. I stumble and sputter out “you knows” and “likes” and “ums” too often for any poor ear to bear. I see the vacant looks on faces, know I’ve failed, and abruptly end with “oh well, never mind” or “you just had to be there.” I’ve come to realize that my attempts are futile. So, I place words on the page or the monitor and try to resist spewing them out on their own into the air where they make a mess. (Of course, I never manage to resist around David. I’m sure his ears are tired.)
Besides, I’ve found that talking about certain moments spoils them in other ways as well. Even if eloquent speech were something I could grasp, I’d keep quiet when one of those moments rolled around. Too many times I’ve held some special piece of time, of being, and just let it go with my voice, violated it.
Some moments are one’s own and can’t be captured for anyone else.