When I wake up thinking about writing, then it’s clear to me that it has become an imperative. We’ve been dating for years, now I feel about ready to shack up.
My writing doesn’t work well by itself. My writing has reading parents. What I read seems to form this big hook-up scene in my mind. Some connections rise, fall and disappear. Others persist, develop relationships — some platonic, some intimate — and mysteriously (or not so mysteriously) they produce offspring. The written offspring of so much reading and connecting and relating goes off to join other people’s mental hook-up scenes and we end up with much more writing than we can ever read.
When I tell people that I blog, some folks raise their eyebrows and say, “really?”
Sometimes I get inspiration from a hashtag like #humanexperiencein4words. My single submission arrived in a flash after reading a few others: Leave me (not) alone.
Sometimes I wish I had more use for the word “jaunty.”
Other People’s Good Writing opens me up to new vistas. I see something differently or in a wider context. Other People’s Good Writing often tells me something I did not know before. Other People’s Good Writing leads me to wonder about the author. Other People’s Good Writing makes me want to write better and sometimes I do.
Some texts do more than give me pause. They have heart, soul, depth and relevance and sharing them becomes a focused, dedicated effort. A recent post by a Minnesota educator did that for me. Thanks, @MrTomRad.
Some authors’ work makes want to read almost whatever they serve up. Antonia Malchik, whose long read on the disappearance of walking in the United States caught my attention a few months ago, is a writer in whom I find a welcome and kindred role model.
It seems that at some point most authors write about the act or practice of writing. I think perhaps we do this to reassure ourselves that there is purpose to our copious or slow-drip output. It may be a reflection which can subtly enable a nice deflection from the real task at hand — the diss, the book, the extended essay, the not-so-short story. We have words and so we travel.
Coherence, written or otherwise, may be overrated.
Is it inevitable that writers write about writing? I think yes, then no and continue to wonder. Whether I find more use for “jaunty” or discover a deeper, more intimate appreciation for coherence in the world remains to be seen. The need, desire and necessity of writing in my life will likely wax and wane over time.