A Note On Writing

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I ache when I can’t write. This doesn’t include the times when I have nothing to say. In such instances I merely feel guilty or fraudulent for not having words. I question my abilities. Where have all my thoughts gone? Where is inspiration? I struggle to conjure enough words to create something worth reading. I urge linguistic parlour tricks. I bamboozle. I force fluff. I know I got nothin.’

Then she comes back and I feel like a writer again.

But, on days when I have those words, when concepts and ideas flow freely, when all the angles make sense, I am useless to the rest of the world. I lock myself in the bubble of creation and here I am, and I don’t care if the rest of the world stops spinning.

If an idea becomes hindered by lack of means I try to remember its core, its tone, a single line, but in my head it continues to grow. A pen would stop the swell of anxiety. The rise of jubilation that comes when things click would be harnessed. I know I will lose most of it. I attempt to hold onto the feeling – the kiss of this specific muse. I race for a means to jot down anything. Chicken scratch blurbs, speckled phrases. Concepts I may not understand anymore, because now they’re three generations of thought old. Even in my head the piece has changed. I have no documentation of those initial thoughts – those marvelous tidbits of pure brilliance (or so they felt at the time). I start on the journey towards the recollection of those acorns, those gems. I am quite positive they were too perfect to simply forget, to dismiss and cast away as just part of some “process” where my beautiful words are to be expected to change. No way, Jose. I need them. And, fuck you, I’m waiting for them to come back. Some muse you turned out to be.

Okay, fine, don’t come back. I have these notes I took on the back of a receipt. A few on a napkin. I don’t need you anymore. I have… whatever this says. I’ll simply retrace the steps of my initial thoughts through these jottings. I’ll piece together the original idea. I will grapple with you, muse, until you see it my way. It was my creature – my beautiful little beast. It is not the ass-raping jungle cat you want it to become. Thank you for the spark, but please go now. Let me have it how I see it, how I want it, according to the vision you initially imparted.

Ugh. Fine. Whatever. WHATEVER! Who am I talking to here? I can't get back to it.  I know how it works.  I've always known. 

I submit.

This is the process of writing, and as good as it will ever get. I can’t imagine any writer having full control. Other things are at work. The grappling is pointless. This I have learned. The muse, at some point, becomes our subconscious. It’s important to harness that and let it be. To cut, and shape, and make it work without attachment to what we see as perfect.


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