Essays begin with something that exists and has meaning before it reaches the page, establishing a different contract between the reader and the writer, a different set of literary obligations. Essays are not arranged by plot, but by anxieties. They don't wonder, "What's next?" with a groan. The anxieties are relieved not so much by the telling, like confession, but by the arranging, the way some of us fix a problem at work by cleaning up the desk. "Getting it right" or an essayist means putting events and details into a revealing--a revelatory--relationship with one another. Strolling through the museum of love and change, the essayist rearranges for all to see the treasures we cannot keep. --"The Art of Translation" by Steven Harvey
Rearranging. The art of rearranging for me began when I was quite young. It began in my room, with my furniture. I kept moving things, trying and trying to get it right. I would find a satisfying arrangement, move into it with a new perspective, a new way of looking at the world, and be happy. Until I got bored or realized what it was lacking. Arrangement meant everything to me, especially in a small space. Once I experienced the pleasure of rearranging, I moved onto other rooms in the house. I drew a new floorplan for my brother's room. Then I drew another and another. He only let me implement one. That's all. It left me wanting more. I cleaned and rearranged the basement, which was satisfying, until it was taken over by my mother's recycling and more toys. I suggested new arrangements for my parents' room. They never moved anything. And still haven't. I moved the couch in the living room, the only thing not tied to the wall. It was moved back by my father in a matter of hours. I changed the orientation of the dining room table. This was allowed, on occasion, for a month or two at a time before it reverted back to its origins.
Rearranging. I've done it in my apartments. Frequently. Those small apartments left me troubled and rearranging was the only way to attempt to relieve the troubles. Knowing that this current apartment, large with defined spaces, would be mind for over six months before I actually moved in, I obsessed over arrangements on an online room planner. I put in the specific dimensions of my furniture and future furniture (yes, I knew that, too) and moved them around in a simulated space. I would go back to it several times a day to make small adjustments, try new arrangements, to get it perfect before moving in. It has worked, so far. I can't envision a better arrrangement for the furniture. I'm happy with the way it is without an itch to try something different.
That is the hope with essays, that the arrangement will work perfectly, that the pieces will fall where they should in order to equal a whole. Especially with the braided essay that I write--multiple sides or experiences put together in the small space of the essay--the pieces have to be in the perfect location. Otherwise, it's just a narrative. Or just a chronological story without meaning. Or disjointed ideas. How you put them together makes the meaning. If you know how they work in relation to one another, what the purpose of each is, you can lay them out to create cohesion, an understanding.
I'm beginning to realize that, in a way, by writing essays I'm doing what I originally desired: interior decorating and design. What do you know, it's coming together.
