Writing: It is a form of freedom. It is the process of search and discover. In my world, writing creates the lines in maps; the rivers and streets that weave through me. It is how I say “I’m here, I am a destination worth reaching, my lights are on, I exist.” Writing is sitting down to think it through and writing is hard hitting impulses. It is the way we capture thoughts; the human mental process. We keep dream journals and diaries and let words encapsulate both our deepest desires and everyday normalcies. Writing is at the essence of who we are as creatures that wish to exist in more than just now.
Writing: It is an art I cannot predict. It is a process that creates itself. Often blank pages are the bane of our existence. They taunt and stare back at you, daring your sanity to crack a little, shining some light on what to write. Writing becomes a process of focus and find. Scrutinize. Think. Focus. Find. Writing often comes to life in assigned moments of pushing through. As this is true, what then of dream journals? Of moments you shoot up in bed with words in your head and rush for paper... of poems written in your sleep. My natural position with writing is a two gun standoff. Where will I be when it hits me? Driving. Working. Dreaming. Words wait for no man, inspiration doesn’t hold off until your lunch break. Writing happens all at once in a rush of sudden understanding, quick clarity, a peek through that crack in your sanity.
Writing: It is often made into something we are forced to need. We have been taught through our schooling years to resent it, to fake it. Not everything we are assigned to do can speak to us as profoundly as late night poetry. Reading academic essays is not the same as reading someone’s anguish, someone’s passion. Analyzing the drab droning of pompous academics doesn’t always reach the dream writers, but maybe only to remind them of the beauty in free writing, and often to just put into perspective the way writing can fill all fields and horizons.
Writing: It is always growing--always changing--with us. I have always been a sort of "free bird" writer. I relish in the rolling of words from pen to paper as the rolling of wind through trees and under wings. I am impulsive and sudden and passionate with my words. But this does not always work. If I really want to see writing in the world around me, I must be prepared to accept mistakes and misjudgments as part of the process. In growing older I have learned the art of revision: the genuineness of pouring your heart out on a page and then going back to add your mind in between.
There is an art in the lines of thoughts, compounded word by word to profess internal processes on a page. Writing is a power; a gift in this noisy world. It is a way to speak even when we are silenced.
