Write this, write that, write something, write anything, and don’t forget to write. I wish it were that simple. It would almost be nice if it were. But it’s not, is it… not really. You write and you write, but sometimes there’s just nothing worth writing about, nothing on your mind. Every word is only the cathartic act of writing. It’s not something I should down play because, like I said, it’s cathartic. Freeing. Enjoyable. But it’s not what gets you high. At least… it’s not the only form of abuse.
Words are just like drugs, and there are different ways of using them just like there are different ways of doing crack cocaine. You can grind it and cut it into a fine powder, snort it, or you can smoke the crystal shards. You can probably even inject, although that particular method isn’t one I’m familiar enough with to talk about.
Point is, there’s only so much you can get out of writing alone, writing in a vaccum. It’s quiet, it’s… well, I was going to say predicatable, but it’s not always predictable is it. I surprised myself with most of my fiction. The only stuff worth reading (probably) came out, at first, as more of a surprise than anything else. I started writing, didn’t know where it was going, and it just fucking landed me with a piece of flash fiction. A piece of writing I wasn’t expecting, but that I liked a lot.
I guess what I’m saying is, I want more than to just write aimlessly in a journal like the (new) one I’ve got online, or like the one on my desk at home. I want more than to be a nobody. But when I have nothing else to write and, at the same time, this burning need to write, coupled together like this, opposing forces wearing each other down, eventually my addiction to it wins out. I write. And when I write without fighting it… I’m just not sure that it’s any better. In fact it might be worse.
Just look at what I’ve written right here, right now. Just words for the sake of writing, to keep up the habit, to keep the flow. To get some fucking words out. I don’t know that I care for the idea of needing to work so that inspiration can find you working. The only reason I was ever sold on this idea of writing all the time was because I get being capable of writing in a way that matches up to the muse when she strikes.
It certainly wasn’t so I could being writing aimlessly, endlessly, with nothing to show for it… hoping that in the midst of my masochistic practice the inspiration would kick in at some point. No, that’s not quite why it make sense to me. I just want to be able to write in massive enough amounts, freely enough, prolificly enough, that when inspiration does hit me like a ton of bricks I won’t be out of practice. I’ll be up to the task of communicating it.
(Fyi: This is a freewrite I didn’t write to share. I just thought, after rereading it, “why not post it here?”)