Sometimes I feel like a hungry hostage cowering in a familiar warm and dusky corner of life, anxious to gorge myself with words. Maybe I make an occasional escape attempt from my not-always benevolent captor–my own impatience. Maybe not.
Writing is a freedom. Not writing isn’t. Other writers will intuitively understand this; although, I’m often a slave to freedom. Time to think, and to write, is solitary, but elusive. Lonely when it isn’t.
I yearn for a little loneliness. I’d get fat writing, but I’m on a diet, you see. Too little time to write. I’m not fat, unfortunately, just busy not writing. Or hiding it when I do. Lunacy. That must end. Writing is a mistress who will not be denied.
Then why write at all? I’ve jumped out of planes in order to fly, into oceans in order to breathe. I’ve sailed great distances in very slow boats, with an almost unbearable thirst for speed. Why not write in order to go crazy? Paradoxically, writing, or perversely, the absence of not writing, has clearly become a quest, a lust, but n.ot guilt-free.
So why this fascination to record fact and fiction for all to see? For some inexplicable notion, I seek and sometimes find joy in telling a story to one reader in particular–myself. Sometimes others read that same story. Maybe they see it differently. Paramount for me, when one day my own memory has been consumed by a geriatric fog, I hope to find joy in re-reading that story I told so many years ago, not so long from now.
For me, writing is something of an inexplicable act of quiet desperation, a way of mollifying an insistent inner voice that cries to be heard, while vilifying it for being so insistent. Stupid, I know, but why does one do anything more than once? Because it’s enjoyable? It’s more than that, isn’t it? Compelling? But why? An experiment? But it must be more than that to justify the pain and the joy. Let’s call it therapeutic fun, or a creative dream. Like woodworking, or bird watching, or some other unknowable quest.
I’ve struggled to identify myself in the context of my writing for years. It hasn’t gotten me very far, so like they say, “If what you’re doing isn’t working, do something else.” So it’s time to do something else, an attempt to take my writing to the next level, wherever that may lead; yet, if I truly possess a deficit of sustained attention (self-diagnosed), this is one more opportunity to spin the bottle in another direction. Odds are good that the mystery will continue, but take more of me in the doing.
I’m blessed with some meager but sustainable means, so writing for me is not a matter of survival or sustenance. At least not yet.
All that matters is that I keep writing until I like what I write, and feel it is of some significance. Then, I’ll try it out on you. For now, I don’t yet dare hope for even the illusion of immortality. After all, it’s too easy to be intimidated by a multitude of more accomplished writers. So in one small way, I’m using this medium to wound two birds. First, it’s a place to gather errant ideas with a creative twist. Second, it could be a way to invite useful criticism, maybe I’ll even hope for a few well-deserved accolades. And if I’m very lucky and just keep at it, I may learn more of what makes me unique among billions. Maybe.
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