Saturday, September 30, 2006

On Not Writing 

I want to write, and I don't. This, for example.

And this.

Sure, I write monthly reports for work. I key-and-send emails quick through the ether. I write on the whiteboard, with stick-figure accompaniment like fugues.

But that's not writing. It's typing.

I want to write gunfire and testosterone, like Hemmingway. I want to write quicksilver language colloquial, parenthetical, onamotapoeic like cummings. I want to write turned phrases or scanned worldliness, in perfect iambs
like Shakespeare. But my hard drive is full to the brim with unfinished odes and vilanelles, fragments all.

I want to write my daughter to sleep each night, and I do. Every bedtime is another princess, and new pangaea, a second story lost to the night. Sometmes she doesn't even hear the endings. But this writing on darkness is lost to the light.

I want to write. But there are so many other things I want to do, need to do, for the same reasons -- to keep myself whole, to create the world, to preserve it like a message in a bottle. Each day I write less, without saying less, and slowly, the volume of words moves from archivable to non, the potential histories of myself growing thinner as I grow older.

Some days, I suppose, it's enough to just say it out loud. And maybe, just maybe, there's something healthy about letting language live esoteric, as fragile and shortlived as soap bubbles. But I want to write. And I don't. And I wish I did, again.

posted by boyhowdy | 8:54 PM |

Good article and meaning, thank you very much. Great!
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