I want to write.
I want words.
I want the levy to break.
Not only that, I want those words, the words that miraculously appear in the middle of my mind that pour down to the back of my throat, and rush through my fingertips, to materialize on the screen in front of me--easily.
But it never comes easily. It's like one big game of telephone between my brain and fingers. How does it get soooo disjointed, you don't have that far to travel!
But some how, it is like traveling the Sahara and I look like I've been hammered in the face. I stare at my screen, I stare at my hands, I stare at the back wall, the window, my roommates and I rub my forehead so roughly that the skin stretched over my skull turns blotchy and inflamed. Words are either screaming at me, forcing their way out like a rowdy crowd forcing their way out of small plane--slow, log-jammed and extremely antsy. Or its like over looking a vast dessert of sand--no sound what-so-ever.
Most often, words act like wisps of wind on my finger tips that come and go, rather than volts of electricity that boldly proclaim themselves.
Have some sympathy. I'm frustrated with writing. And I have been all year. For example, let's take the last few paragraphs, they didn't make sense or at least it didn't until I wrung them of all its diseased grammar, cliche and wanderin' misspelled words. And they still stand their wobbling like newly, born giraffes and I'm standing with my hands tied, hoping to God they don't fall over.
I mean as you read this, everything--hopefully--makes sense. But that is only because I've already spent 25 minutes staring, sifting, writhing, and fingering through it. And you spent 2.5 seconds reading it.
That ratio alone could make me never write again. Now, I'm not about to become some ostentatious woman of a writer that shoos away readers that don't appreciate the blood, tears, and burning eyeball-time that I put into my craftsmanship--tempting--but I also recognize my writing ain't that good to begin with, and I actually am not crazy about being dissected by passerby-ers.
With that said, there is also something magical about writing--closer to black magic than Mary Poppins. Its a love-hate thing, it's trudging through mud, its the feeling of levies breaking through your finger tips, but then it's also the tickle of new words in your ears, the jittering of a final, completed sentence and the anticipation of a response.
Every true writer would agree (although I wouldn't consider myself a true writer, I do share this attribute of hating everything I write). Ultimately writing sucks, and if you enjoy it, you're doing it wrong (a la Wolfe).
But no matter how painful it may be to write it simultaneously feels amazing and its no doubt addicting. The only thing I don't understand about writing is why it has to feel like I'm pushing a fat elephant through a mouse hole?
Why cant it just be easy?
Sigh.
Anyways, this is my post. I've been bickered by some people that I haven't been posting enough and I also am behind on the 30 day thing. So I'll try and kill two birds with one stone. I started blogging long, long, long ago on something called LiveJournal. It was the precursor of Myspace and Facebook. It was a way to communicate with friends but more than that it was a way to indulge in my own narcissism.
I cant remember why I started this blog specifically, but I think it was a way for me to creatively outpour myself... I like posting pictures and internet findings that I don't want to forget. It's a way for me to exercise my sentimentality, nostalgia and writing skills combined. It's a fun thing for me and I love reading other peoples thoughts.
Anyways, I promise to post something more interesting soon. I finally finished EDVP training and have more time to for more recreational things.
