I whisper as I write. I listen to the words and the relationships between the words and I make sure my sentences sound complete. I end a paragraph when it sounds like I should end a paragraph. I write conclusions that sound like conclusions. The sentences create a rhythm, the words a beat. The writing continues because my mouth is still open. I backspace if something sounds wrong. I punctuate with my lips.
When I write, my ideas fall into order on the page. My voice is useless to me – a backdrop – a reassurance that what I’m saying exists off screen. If someone were to listen to me as I write, what would they hear? A soft hissing. A bad sentence, then a new one. A mouth hanging open, unconscious of anything but the typeface in front of it.
My mouth, it appears, is related to my words, yet so useless to me when I use it alone. I often wish I could write instead of speaking. My words fall on to the page in order, like a piece of music. When I speak I always lose the point. I wish I knew how to write music – instead of mumbling, I would sing as I write.