The work of a year
Writing, it seems, should be a fairly straight forward and simple affair. One has ideas, one speaks and writes in a given language, one transfers said ideas into said language - and there you are.
And yet, whatever it is that connects point A to point B, whatever it is that happens in the between is a complicated, complex, terrifying, invigorating affair.
The readable draft of my first novel is complete. I never thoughts I could have written so much. With year after year of half-conceived projects, unfinished bits and pieces, I had begun to believe that I was not in for the long run. That I could write one act plays and poetry. Song lyrics on very rare occasions. Characters and worlds, perhaps. But never an entire universe spinning together.
But, for what it's worth, it was written. And, it has been sent to others, out away from my heart and my mind and my protection. It is on its own in the big world- in a sense. In a way my writing never has been. Nothing so close to me.
It has been printed, hard-copy, on paper with ink and all that. It folds up nicely like a book. We can see it sitting there. Page after page after page of thoughts and expressions and ways of being that were difficult to explain, and yet natural in their way. A heart song in descriptions and dialog and explications.
And so, for now, I set you all free to do what you do. For the next eight or so years, anyway. I hope the world out there finds you well.
I wonder how you will have changed when I happen upon you again. Will you remember me? Will it be as if I never left? Does time travel the same between here and there, between myself and them?
Probably not. Eight years will go by in a flash. I will hardly have noticed.
I'm sure.
And yet, whatever it is that connects point A to point B, whatever it is that happens in the between is a complicated, complex, terrifying, invigorating affair.
The readable draft of my first novel is complete. I never thoughts I could have written so much. With year after year of half-conceived projects, unfinished bits and pieces, I had begun to believe that I was not in for the long run. That I could write one act plays and poetry. Song lyrics on very rare occasions. Characters and worlds, perhaps. But never an entire universe spinning together.
But, for what it's worth, it was written. And, it has been sent to others, out away from my heart and my mind and my protection. It is on its own in the big world- in a sense. In a way my writing never has been. Nothing so close to me.
It has been printed, hard-copy, on paper with ink and all that. It folds up nicely like a book. We can see it sitting there. Page after page after page of thoughts and expressions and ways of being that were difficult to explain, and yet natural in their way. A heart song in descriptions and dialog and explications.
And so, for now, I set you all free to do what you do. For the next eight or so years, anyway. I hope the world out there finds you well.
I wonder how you will have changed when I happen upon you again. Will you remember me? Will it be as if I never left? Does time travel the same between here and there, between myself and them?
Probably not. Eight years will go by in a flash. I will hardly have noticed.
I'm sure.
2 Thought(s):
Writing is like reaching into a alternate, but very real, dimension, with it's own rules and logic and such. Then you don't just make it all up, you have to scientifically figure out how the world works, who's in it, and how everyone acts and such.
And, to add to the complication, you are often connecting on a faulty line - one that cuts out on a whim, garbles transmissions, and even intentionally misleads.
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