People often ask me why I don't write more. The truth is that I write a lot. I just don't post or publish very much.
Writing as a form of creative expression requires a degree of physical participation from the observer that is not inherently required in other mediums. The observer is not afforded the ease of casual observance, or the experience of taste, touch, and smell in order to form an opinion on what they've observed. While a painting, sculpture, well prepared meal or lovely fragrance can be more easily done, those who wish to critique the written word are required the action of reading, often a tedious action at that. Many are required to search for reading glasses and still must face the need for time and space, free of distraction.
The writer is really asking a lot from his audience, and he or she are thus required to give a lot in return. How can I paint a portrait of words? How can I assemble words in a manner that will reward the reader with the ability to touch, feel, smell and taste the very experience I write about? It's a rather tall order if taken seriously. At best I always hope that I can at least provide the reader with something to think about, something to ponder, hopefully provoking them to revisit and explore a previously held idea, possibly updating their views in a manner that brings them greater peace and joy.
To be honest, I
actually write a lot, I just don't post or publish much of my writing. Primarily because I rarely finish what I
start. Just look around my office at the
physical evidence of life-changing endeavors that I embark on; knitting,
macramé, micro-macramé, beaded, bedazzled and bejeweled cock rings…. This seems to be the overriding theme of all
that I attempt in life. I start out great guns, full of hope and ideas, and
then at the bottom of the fourth inning, I just tend to "peter out"
as my mother was wont to say. It's not
that I lose interest, I just lose focus,
and I suppose I also lose confidence. I review whatever it is I'm writing and
ask myself if there's any sense in writing it other than the egotistical
catharsis of hearing and sharing my own opinion? I mean, does anybody really care about this
crap? I begin to second guess not only
the purpose of the piece but my very own purpose. Am I really provoking
thought? Am I writing this in a manner
that will provoke the reader to give some thought to their own opinions or how
they arrived at them? Or do I sound as though I'm attempting to pontificate and
impose my own opinion on others, which I swear to myself is not my intent at
I won't blame my poor follow-through on a lack of education, particularly my
lack of study in the art and discipline of writing. Hell, I've not even made an attempt to
actually take a writing course. I do recall some basics that I was taught in
high school English classes that dabbled in writing. If memory serves me
correctly, in order to be valid your writing was required to answer several
questions that began with the letter W; who, what, when and where. To this, I added some self-imposed notion
that all writing had to have a beginning, a middle and an end, as one might
expect from a blowjob or some other sexual encounter, which pretty much
requires a who, what, where, when, and frequently a why, and for how long. You set the stage, you do the grunt work, you're rewarded with a climax for your
efforts, followed by the anticlimactic moments of gathering yourself up, wiping
yourself off and leaving money on the dresser, or if it's good day, perhaps
someone leaves money on your dresser.
But, maybe I'm confused, maybe only a story, be it fiction or nonfiction
requires a beginning, a middle, and an end. I don't actually write stories, I
just sort of share ideas plucked from the endless stream of cerebral effluent that
flows through my mind… I mean, I do have stories from time to time, of course I
do. But even when I tell a tale, say about an aunt, one of my dad's sisters,
that remained in the country, living a rural life, and answered the door by
peeking through the curtain with dentures in hand, establishing whether you was
church people or kinfolk prior to actually putting them in her mouth.. I can tell you about the time she had a snake
in the root cellar and the fracas that entailed. Yeah, I can also tell the
story of the uncle on my mother's side that was incensed that the finger he
lost in a threshing accident as a child was to later keep him from being a
full-fledged member of some guild or fraternal organization to which he
aspired, as he was not 'whole.' Of
course these were different times where children were born at home and
Christians had never heard of a mohle.
Of course I can share stories of my own, and sometimes do. Stories of my own
experiences that speak of time, place, cohorts and consequences. They generally have a beginning, middle, and
end and can be wrapped neatly in a bow of joy, disappointment, or disaster
even. But I tend to find them rather
boring compared to the ongoing thoughts and notions that keep life ongoing.
So, with that said,
I'm going to just write more, and publish more.. And if things don't always answer all the
questions or have a beginning, middle, and end… then I hope you'll see that as
an opportunity and invitation to identify with the topic at hand and ask
yourself the questions, provide your own ending. After all, we're all on the same journey,
just traveling by different means.
I both do and don't want to apologize for the fact that I often make rather
crude analogies, parallels that could be handled more tastefully and tactfully
without a comparison to blowjobs. But,
whatever. Some of you will giggle, some will find my approach exasperatingly
gratuitous, and there are of course those that will find me downright
disgusting and indecent. I'm doing what
I've been told to do, which is to write what I know, to speak of my own
experience and how I perceive it. By
sharing it with you I'm given the opportunity to have it seen from a different
perspective, with fresh eyes. No, not unbiased eyes, but eyes unbiased of my
OK, time for me to get busy.