06-25-2018, 11:45 PM
A literary thread composed of my thoughts. I’ll be here, writing, if I can’t make a song for a while. Right now is one such situation.
This is mainly my own personal “venting” thread if you will; however, I’ve geared it in such a way that it isn’t as one-sided as the usual “vent” seems to be.
The first thing may be an exception though as it’s quite late, which usually means I’m bothered too much to the point where I can’t sleep (usually to one of those identity crises I loathe about even though I’ve never built up enough courage to admit that I’m hypocritical and I have them too.)
“On Writer’s Block, Indifference, and the Search for Closure”
Sometimes you get lost in the middle of your own train of thought and are only aware when it’s derailed and broken beyond repair. You try to put it back together but you can’t. You try to start anew but it won’t suffice. I was told to think before I act, but here I am, stuck and thinking.
It’s a very smart thing to be stuck, in the way that you show care and effort to get yourself there. But nobody will respect you for your effort if nothing comes out of it. Not in a “you ran a twenty-minute mile; good effort” sort of way—that’s still something—I mean absolutely nothing. And that is the major caveat of a thinker who only knows thought.
Other literary geniuses will envy your unparalled ability to stream several words out of your mind and into text, but only just. Look at your text again. You’ve messed that part up. Start over, but know that you won’t finish.
I can’t finish. Not when I have at least five different thoughts clouding up my mind simultaneously. I want to write a paragraph about how I’m aware that this thread will receive comments about how it was impossible to make sense of any of this text and that it could have been written differently. I want to make a paragraph about how I’m aware of my own rambling and never-ending conversations. I want to write a paragraph about all these brief lightbulb flashes in my head, but they’ve gone as soon as I was aware of its presence.
I can write about those things, but if I do, I’ll never stop. I’ll never get to the conclusion. But the potential to continue on what is believed to be an amazing piece of text drives me to add more to it until someone has to point out that it’s been made unpalatable by doing so.
But when you move on from that permanent draft, you realize that planning a story like a real writer severely inhibits your ability to come up with anything groundbreaking. And because a real writer doesn’t have that problem, you are not a real writer.
You find the closure you longed for in the cluster of crumpled papers and files scattered across your desktop. You set your pen down and return to life, the most beautiful burden that exists.
This is mainly my own personal “venting” thread if you will; however, I’ve geared it in such a way that it isn’t as one-sided as the usual “vent” seems to be.
The first thing may be an exception though as it’s quite late, which usually means I’m bothered too much to the point where I can’t sleep (usually to one of those identity crises I loathe about even though I’ve never built up enough courage to admit that I’m hypocritical and I have them too.)
“On Writer’s Block, Indifference, and the Search for Closure”
Sometimes you get lost in the middle of your own train of thought and are only aware when it’s derailed and broken beyond repair. You try to put it back together but you can’t. You try to start anew but it won’t suffice. I was told to think before I act, but here I am, stuck and thinking.
It’s a very smart thing to be stuck, in the way that you show care and effort to get yourself there. But nobody will respect you for your effort if nothing comes out of it. Not in a “you ran a twenty-minute mile; good effort” sort of way—that’s still something—I mean absolutely nothing. And that is the major caveat of a thinker who only knows thought.
Other literary geniuses will envy your unparalled ability to stream several words out of your mind and into text, but only just. Look at your text again. You’ve messed that part up. Start over, but know that you won’t finish.
I can’t finish. Not when I have at least five different thoughts clouding up my mind simultaneously. I want to write a paragraph about how I’m aware that this thread will receive comments about how it was impossible to make sense of any of this text and that it could have been written differently. I want to make a paragraph about how I’m aware of my own rambling and never-ending conversations. I want to write a paragraph about all these brief lightbulb flashes in my head, but they’ve gone as soon as I was aware of its presence.
I can write about those things, but if I do, I’ll never stop. I’ll never get to the conclusion. But the potential to continue on what is believed to be an amazing piece of text drives me to add more to it until someone has to point out that it’s been made unpalatable by doing so.
But when you move on from that permanent draft, you realize that planning a story like a real writer severely inhibits your ability to come up with anything groundbreaking. And because a real writer doesn’t have that problem, you are not a real writer.
You find the closure you longed for in the cluster of crumpled papers and files scattered across your desktop. You set your pen down and return to life, the most beautiful burden that exists.
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