Monday, March 23, 2009
I Want To Write...
I think it would great some day to have something profound to say: something everyone would read and find worthwhile. This piece of writing would be novel and in no way trite restatement of worn sentiment or of overstated point of view. In fact, the writing would be revolutionary in content and style. How gratifying this would be to have people say, "I believe in your words." My mind relies on my keyboard to lead me from word to thought then to idea, but in my conscious journey to find words and phrases, I become more fluent as unconsciousness enters the mix. Very simply, I can't create anything without starting to find what my conscious mind did not know was there. Then, sometimes the writing flows strong and fluent, but sometimes it quickly turns into a trickle. I know the value of words wasted and words saved. So, my strongest piece of writing is buried in my mind while I tap around the keyboard waiting for its unscheduled release. Frustrated enough, I usually settle for this practice without a thrilling outcome and tell myself the future holds better production and stronger style. I satisfy myself by writing another day. I know exactly what I want to tell the readers in my best writing. It's not really that difficult to understand, and I feel more purpose when my emotions press a little deeper through my thick skin. I want to write something that lets people confront themselves with truth, a truth much more than justice. I want to let them see that love is all that matters. Without it, we must all cease to exist. A million writers have found expression for this theme with their great written works. To find the words within myself to add anything to their accounts is quite a personal labor. As of yet, I am not satisfied with the words I put on paper. The best I can do is write a ton of jumbled ideas and unread ramblings. I write to practice stretching my unconscious connections to some discovery of meaning I have yet captured on paper. As long as I write, the journey continues. As a composition teacher, I read tremendous papers, so many I could not count. When my students struck their fires, they made no mention of their great ideas. Their words led them to meaning and they found accurate description and concrete detail to paint the scenes. The paper that really mattered was simple in its truth, a truth confronted on white paper.
Posted by Frank Thompson at 6:49 PM