Sunday, November 23, 2008
I hate the feeling that comes between inspiration and the conception of an idea. The desperate yearning to create something accompanied by the right mind-set and infinite directions to choose and therefore no path to take. I just finished a book in which the author started his writing career by writing everything without caring how it retched itself into words, phrases, sentences, paragraphs, and so forth. Maybe I care too much. I have learned with my visual artwork that the best art comes when you are not thinking, when you are not trying to make it as artistic as humanly possible. It makes perfect sense that the same should apply to writing, but I can’t bring myself to believe that. In every English class I have sat through, I have, at the demand of my teacher, poured over the meaning of each seemingly carefully chosen syllable. Sometimes I felt like one could find meaning in each letter if we searched hard enough. The only issue is that letters tend to affiliate themselves with varying word personalities and lend themselves only to furthering our confusion in our literature safari. Emotion pours, it is not careful and pragmatic. Why then, should an expression of emotion be such? It should not. Meaning surfaces on each word because of the emotion bubbling behind them. They were not carefully chosen to portray the author’s heart, rather, the heart filled up each word with emotional juice that when popped by your pen, ruptures. A burst of epiphanic understanding.