I have been studying for my LSATs. Yes, I know it seems strange for an aspiring artist to be an aspiring lawyer as well. For most, this concept seems akin to the actual impossibility of occupying two physical locations at the same time. However, for me, these two identity categories are not as incommensurable as all that.

Regardless, as I was working through a book chalk-full of prep tests, I came across an interesting passage in the reading comprehension section of the book. The content of this passage dovetailed perfectly with the imaginative and artistic dilemmas I have been facing recently, that it bears mentioning in this journal. Allow me to reproduce an excerpt from an academic essay written about Hemingway and his style of writing: “The primary intent of his [Hemingway’s] writing, from first to last, was to seize and project for the reader what he often called ‘the way it was.’”

Now, given Hemingway’s status as a journalist and then a writer, this particular revelation hardly seems worth note; however, when used as a barometer to measure my own personal imaginative endeavours, it manages to succinctly explain why I haven’t been able to finish any of the projects that I have begun. Simply put, I can’t describe “the way it was” because I wasn’t there.

There are two projects I have been working on. The first is a short story about the situation a friend of mine faces. The second is a sonnet (mentioned in my previous journal entry) about a post a friend of mine had recently written. Neither project has progressed since I began writing about them.

The first short story is a fine example of the oft blurred line separating the socially acceptable and the criminal. This story is too personal and arguably offensive to be given accurate representation in the media; however, these qualities that make it impossible to be explained through the avenue of journalism lend to it a poetic lilt that screams to be reproduced as a piece of short fiction. The friend of mine involved in this story was recently released on bail and is waiting on an appeal.

So, why can’t I write this story? That’s a complicated question that can be reduced to a simple answer: it isn’t my story to tell. I cannot accurately describe “the way it was” because I wasn’t there. Furthermore, unless the friend involved is willing to let me interview him, I won’t ever truly know “the way it was.” I will talk to him about this, but I am thinking about abandoning this project altogether.

The sonnet isn’t coming because it feels forced. A friend of mine is traveling across North-West Africa and has recently written a post about the ethically ambiguous role the use of plastic plays in African culture. To be certain, the exorbitant use of non-biodegradable plastic is currently plaguing our plant; however, as his post eloquently details, the use of plastic in subsistence economies streamlines the trading process. While the use of plastic in western culture is emblematic of our indifference and laziness, in subsistence economies being able to trade single-servings in small plastic bags is a blessing. Often, a single serving is all the locals can afford for the day.

So why can’t I write this sonnet? Well, again, the idea is not mine. However, this is not the main issue. Without personally witnessing what my friend has so wonderfully described, it’s impossible to honestly capture its image in poetry. I feel as though the attempts I make to describe this community and its reliance on plastic would be fraudulent.

Simply put, to continue with these projects without further input from those who know would be unfair and dishonest. I wouldn’t be painting an image of “the way it was.” I would be describing “the way I imagine it was” or, more accurately, “the way it wasn’t.”