I'm not an intellectual, I write with my body

Kate has written a creative response to the writings of Clarice Lispector:

I’M NOT AN INTELLECTUAL, I WRITE WITH MY BODY.

My fingers type. Type – type. If I put thought and reason into the words I create, I would lose my voice. An intellectual I am not. No-Sir-ree. If I spent too much time thinking about what long words I could use, the story would fall through those fingers. Tap tap my nails upon the keyboard. Tap tap the image in my head, knocking to get out. I did not create her, on purpose. I did not purposefully mould her the way that she is. My narrator takes over the writing as she is part of my body. I am not sure where she hides. Maybe in a thumb. The left thumb. Pretending to be useless. Evolution whispering instructions upon the other digits.

My left side in general is very sneaky. Almost as sneaky as the thoughts that slip into my narratives. Maybe it’s all left, and that’s why my smallest character was found holding the full stop. 

There is something very strange about the base of my back. Where my spine ends. This part of my body is something of an enigma. Maybe a question mark. A mystery. A little harder to remove than the common mole. Some of my stories lose their meaning at the spot which I cannot see. Behind my words is where she likes to hide, I’m sure. Slippery little lady.

The words I write ignore my planning. They have ideas of their own. Like that thumb. Rocking in motion to the others shaping the story. Pretending to be useful. Podgy. This is why, when I re-read my stories, I cannot remember writing them. The other hides her control. The limb that takes hold of the doing. The one that commanded the lightening. The spark. The ignition to life within my narratives.

Maybe they are all real. Many, many – many little ideas living inside my body. Hiding from me. So small they can be disguised as freckles or tucked away beneath my skin. The drumming from behind my lungs may not be my own. Tap. Tap – tap.

I once wrote a story about a lost child who found her voice among my words. Through the drafting she messed with my vowels and blew away all the dots from my eyes like dandelion seeds. She was very minxy as she played hide and seek in the long grass. I wanted her to be found by a dog walker and returned, but she wouldn’t listen to me. I called out to her. I asked where she was hiding but she did not answer. They like to play games with me, but I worry. I worry about their safety. Tap, tap my heart races. Tap, tap his footsteps up the muddy lane towards the dandelion field.

If I gave up writing, if I did not write, I would stop – being. The worlds I create cannot be found on the back of cereal boxes. If people ask for some insight into my writing, I will invite them in for a cup of tea. Their guess is as good as mine. No academic would understand, it would take another other to see it.