A...thing. With stuff.
Why am I not writing?
It’s a strange question to ask, especially as the words that you’re reading are words that are being broadcast from the tip of my brainstem to the tips of my fingers as surely as I’m sitting here, awash in the creamy glow of my laptop screen. The action is occurring. Action, reaction, that’s the way it goes. My action is the motion, the reaction should be the words. That’s the way it goes. That’s the way it should be.
Still.
It’s just not the same damn thing.
Can I make sense here? Let us see. You’ll have to be the judge, just like all those other fateful moments, all those other beautiful days when I’ve called out to you, to you, whoever you may be. How ya doin? Glad you stopped by. Are you enjoying your beverage?
Swell.
Action, reaction, that’s where I was, that’s the spot where I was trying to be. Writing seems to be more than that. Yes, you can easily commit some manner of words to paper, to stone, to flesh, to whatever. Yes, you can easily bash out a terrific volume of pages describing the technical intricacies of the latest electric toothbrush manufactured for the express purpose of being sold at the Sharper Image.
(Is that store still around? You don’t really see them anymore.)
Yes, you can prattle on and on about it, during it. And yes, most of the time, nothing will get done. Action, reaction, simple as a nekkid babe. Not anymore.
Not here, not now, not in this dark, not in this world. Abstractions occur, and they get in our way. And even though the words exist…they are simply meaningless. Simply.
Simply not simple at all.
Sometimes, it becomes so easy. Sometimes, sometimes, you start the action, and that goddamn magical reaction occurs. Newtonian mechanics, you are on my side, and from my head comes a bubbling froth of madness and delight that it placed upon whatever I come across, adorning all that I see with the letters that I love. See that cup? It runneth over. Action and reaction, ideas and truth.
I was trying to tell the truth. I was trying to see the truth. I was trying to find the truth. Even with fiction, that’s what one does. But that is hardly as simple as it might sound. Write what you know? No.
Write what you trust? Not quite.
Write what you love?
Yes. Yes, yes, yes indeed. Simple as it may seem…I think that might be all we have.
Ain’t that grand?
Truth, life, love. No matter how much I say, I always seem to come to the same point. No matter how many ones and zeroes this laptop churns into letters, my mind always uses its own magical roundabout way to find itself at that very same point. And the point is always that I cannot seem to find a point at all. This is discouraging.
But yet again, yet again, it gives me something to shoot for. Because yet again, yet again, I find myself plagued with writers standstill.
Ain’t that great?
Truth, life, love. Tear apart the seams of any truly great piece of writing and you will find them. The syntax might not be perfect, the images might not be sublime, but if that something is there, then the right people are going to feel it. And the right people are going to love it, just like you do.
This is about writing, for those who write, not for those who call themselves writers. Different things, different meanings, different areas. The people who are writers, the ones who make so much money writing standard crime fiction, standard romance fiction, standard horror fiction…those people don’t seem to write right. They do what they do, they make people read, they grab their paycheck and smile. Good for them. But is the love there? Not most of the time.
If the love isn’t at the core, then the rest of it loses meaning. The truth falls by the wayside, the life isn’t burning within the pages. The love isn’t there, the words aren’t pure. If the words aren’t pure…what are they?
They’re just another fucking Dan Brown novel.
Ain’t that nice?
Action, reaction.
I’m going to try to write something. Write here, write now. Write something that is my very own.
Truth, life, love. Write?
I certainly hope I do.
It’s a strange question to ask, especially as the words that you’re reading are words that are being broadcast from the tip of my brainstem to the tips of my fingers as surely as I’m sitting here, awash in the creamy glow of my laptop screen. The action is occurring. Action, reaction, that’s the way it goes. My action is the motion, the reaction should be the words. That’s the way it goes. That’s the way it should be.
Still.
It’s just not the same damn thing.
Can I make sense here? Let us see. You’ll have to be the judge, just like all those other fateful moments, all those other beautiful days when I’ve called out to you, to you, whoever you may be. How ya doin? Glad you stopped by. Are you enjoying your beverage?
Swell.
Action, reaction, that’s where I was, that’s the spot where I was trying to be. Writing seems to be more than that. Yes, you can easily commit some manner of words to paper, to stone, to flesh, to whatever. Yes, you can easily bash out a terrific volume of pages describing the technical intricacies of the latest electric toothbrush manufactured for the express purpose of being sold at the Sharper Image.
(Is that store still around? You don’t really see them anymore.)
Yes, you can prattle on and on about it, during it. And yes, most of the time, nothing will get done. Action, reaction, simple as a nekkid babe. Not anymore.
Not here, not now, not in this dark, not in this world. Abstractions occur, and they get in our way. And even though the words exist…they are simply meaningless. Simply.
Simply not simple at all.
Sometimes, it becomes so easy. Sometimes, sometimes, you start the action, and that goddamn magical reaction occurs. Newtonian mechanics, you are on my side, and from my head comes a bubbling froth of madness and delight that it placed upon whatever I come across, adorning all that I see with the letters that I love. See that cup? It runneth over. Action and reaction, ideas and truth.
I was trying to tell the truth. I was trying to see the truth. I was trying to find the truth. Even with fiction, that’s what one does. But that is hardly as simple as it might sound. Write what you know? No.
Write what you trust? Not quite.
Write what you love?
Yes. Yes, yes, yes indeed. Simple as it may seem…I think that might be all we have.
Ain’t that grand?
Truth, life, love. No matter how much I say, I always seem to come to the same point. No matter how many ones and zeroes this laptop churns into letters, my mind always uses its own magical roundabout way to find itself at that very same point. And the point is always that I cannot seem to find a point at all. This is discouraging.
But yet again, yet again, it gives me something to shoot for. Because yet again, yet again, I find myself plagued with writers standstill.
Ain’t that great?
Truth, life, love. Tear apart the seams of any truly great piece of writing and you will find them. The syntax might not be perfect, the images might not be sublime, but if that something is there, then the right people are going to feel it. And the right people are going to love it, just like you do.
This is about writing, for those who write, not for those who call themselves writers. Different things, different meanings, different areas. The people who are writers, the ones who make so much money writing standard crime fiction, standard romance fiction, standard horror fiction…those people don’t seem to write right. They do what they do, they make people read, they grab their paycheck and smile. Good for them. But is the love there? Not most of the time.
If the love isn’t at the core, then the rest of it loses meaning. The truth falls by the wayside, the life isn’t burning within the pages. The love isn’t there, the words aren’t pure. If the words aren’t pure…what are they?
They’re just another fucking Dan Brown novel.
Ain’t that nice?
Action, reaction.
I’m going to try to write something. Write here, write now. Write something that is my very own.
Truth, life, love. Write?
I certainly hope I do.
posted by Your friend, the fool at 3:14 AM
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