Writing is a compulsion for some of us. We love the tidiness of words that fit like soldiers in a march toward some end and the untidiness of words that erupt like a volcano leaving bits of fire everywhere. When we spill these words across a page, they mean different things to different people, and if we are a good writer, writing critics, just like art critics, spend precious time analyzing and deciphering and admiring. Yet most of us are mediocre writers at best. We know that and do not stop because it is a scratch that we just MUST itch. Most of the time what we spill is not deeply intriguing or even interesting beyond the single reading. For some of us, it can help us understand ourselves and our place in time when no one else does. We think our words become far more than a spontaneous and uncontrolled communication with the universe.
Some of us have a turn of phrase tumble out of our heads onto the paper that requires deeper analysis before we share, and so we tuck it away into a note for it to ferment. Another time, maybe it is something we have seen that strikes our fancy and so we paint that scene with words. We never for a second allow the thought to enter that this unique combination of words might be trivial and we might be lying to ourselves about its potential importance when woven into a paragraph, an essay,or a scene. We hope and nurture that it is a tool clearing the passage to something more magnificent down the road. When we pull it out once again months later, we might possibly read it as the ramblings of an idiot full of sound and fury signifying nothing...someone famous wrote that and I just stole it...sometimes what floats to the front of the mind it is something that someone else wrote which we admired such a long time ago.
A few days ago, while cleaning up my laptop (digitally), I found a file labeled philosophy. It consisted of about 14 lines of questions and interesting statements about life. I was intrigued by what I had written, and at first, assumed I had been very erudite at the time I made that note. I must have been humming like a finely tuned violin. The more I re-read the words, though, I realized these were phrases captured from some movie I had seen...where the dialogue (I think from some detective) had been intriguing and intellectual, unlike most movie dialogue. The questions he asked were so thought provoking that I guess I had hoped to use it as a stimulus for future meanderings of my own.
Have you ever done that? Is your life cluttered with your notes, others' notes and jumbled words just waiting to be woven into a cleaner more interesting tapestry, or am I the only one stumbling in this cluttered and indiscriminate universe of words to which we are exposed every day?
I have been taking a digital course on writing and love being a student
again. I was never one who hated school. I am working on bits and
pieces of a "short" story in three parts as part of the course. If I
find it worthwhile and do not fear being naked, I may post it if I can actually finish it. It is
going to be close to 20-30 pages, so perhaps translating to a blog will not
work...too long. I am struggling.