21 September 2015
At some point, I discovered that my thoughts had not only volume, not only texture, weight, but shape -- and from here sprung the obsession with not just the sentence, but the nooks and crannies of it, the arches and corners, the baseboards and hinges of language. I found parallels between the shape of my thoughts and the em dash -- the corrupter of linearity; and the repetitions of my anxieties with anaphora in writing; and in the shape of my curving body -- the breasts, the moles, the thumbs, stomach, wrists -- where each part is holy as the next, things not subjugated but a long line of disparate and equally vital parts, here I found polysyndeton. The cold hard stop. I, woman writer, could be found here too. O, where I could exist without being contained.
(from part of a larger essay draft.)