I write to feel right.
This is - quite basically - the reason I write at all. My brain is often a cauldron, within which thoughts are constantly frothing and bubbling, threatening to spill over the edges, but the cauldron is tightly sealed, and so the thoughts keep percolating endlessly, never surrendering, only giving rise to more thoughts and ideas until you feel like your head is about to burst.
And so, I grab a pen, and with it I carve holes into my skull, allowing all the thoughts to filter through in an orderly (or not so orderly) manner, so that I can simply stop feeling like my head is three times its size, so I can stop grinding my teeth so hard that I feel my jaw giving way.
I write to stop feeling angry, or sad, or tired, or even to celebrate my happiness or random bouts of content.
I write, because I like words.
It's ironic how I've managed to fail to find a word that expresses how I feel about words. There is no word, sadly, to describe that feeling you get, when an intangible thought transforms before your mind's eye into a jumble of letters, that then coalesce into a word. It is beautiful, satisfying, and utterly baffling.
It's nice, to watch the words then interlink into phrases, expressing thoughts and meanings that used to be just at the tip of your tongue, so close and yet so very far. You smile, as you dress those meanings up, in long flowing statements, in bright adjectives and startling, sparkling words.
And then you step back, cupping your chin, and appraise your work in pride and (often hidden) relief.
Congratulations, you've written something, and you'll never be the same again.
This is - quite basically - the reason I write at all. My brain is often a cauldron, within which thoughts are constantly frothing and bubbling, threatening to spill over the edges, but the cauldron is tightly sealed, and so the thoughts keep percolating endlessly, never surrendering, only giving rise to more thoughts and ideas until you feel like your head is about to burst.
And so, I grab a pen, and with it I carve holes into my skull, allowing all the thoughts to filter through in an orderly (or not so orderly) manner, so that I can simply stop feeling like my head is three times its size, so I can stop grinding my teeth so hard that I feel my jaw giving way.
I write to stop feeling angry, or sad, or tired, or even to celebrate my happiness or random bouts of content.
I write, because I like words.
It's ironic how I've managed to fail to find a word that expresses how I feel about words. There is no word, sadly, to describe that feeling you get, when an intangible thought transforms before your mind's eye into a jumble of letters, that then coalesce into a word. It is beautiful, satisfying, and utterly baffling.
It's nice, to watch the words then interlink into phrases, expressing thoughts and meanings that used to be just at the tip of your tongue, so close and yet so very far. You smile, as you dress those meanings up, in long flowing statements, in bright adjectives and startling, sparkling words.
And then you step back, cupping your chin, and appraise your work in pride and (often hidden) relief.
Congratulations, you've written something, and you'll never be the same again.
That's very interesting you have a very introspective process of writing, I have to say my brain (and therefore my writing) works the opposite way, I write to make the thoughts appear, you may say my brain functions on expression, when I talk, write, draw etc I just let loose my brain and let it guide me and suddenly stuff comes out. That's how it usually works for me.
ReplyDeleteI actually feel the same way, about words and writing. It amazes me how much writing can be so liberating. Sometimes it's planned and others it's not. It's good being random. :)
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