Oct 3 2007

October 3 2007

 

I can only squeeze out a small fraction of thought into my writing as of yet. But I feel, sense, drown in the swirl of words, thoughts and ideas that course through me each and every day. I have an endless amount of pages to be written, weaving in and out of my conscious and subconscious. I have written a hundred novels in the ethereal nothingness of mind. I wait like a spider in a dark webby corner for the moment it will flood out of me and onto the page.

Before the struggle has ended and all that is left is the quiet assurance of being able to articulate these flashes, get them down before they dissipate and disappear, I hold on to the life raft of this dead-end job, for the sole purpose of creating something no one will even care about.

I can’t tell if it’s dedication or madness that keeps me going. There is no glory in the young life of a writer, a real writer. No one understands what you are trying to do, or why you even bother.

The real writer is not afraid to fall, he is not afraid to fail. Misery is his only lasting company, and he will wrestle with it until the end of his days for mere glimpses of contentment and happiness.

The word is always too soon. The minds have not yet registered the intake of picture and information. Not enough to know truly where they stand.

The writer does it on a subconscious level, as if possessed. The writer transcends himself but is just as bound to the past as everyone else. The future will know the now better than the now knows itself, but will still live in the past. The future is the now, later. The now is the past’s future.

Reviews

[Corset]

you're absolutely right :D

[JC]

you can say that twice.

[Corset]

how 'bout i write it...oh... never mind!

[D.L]

It's hard not to be captured by the fluidity of your writing. On top of that, everything you say is relatable.

[MomzillaNC]

I love seeing someone use the full wealth of the English language! You are so eloquent!

[Sweet_pale_cacophony]

I have written a hundred novels in the ethereal nothingness of mind...

Such an eloquent write-up on a writer's mind where a million thoughts swim and dance. Only a lucky few materialize on paper.