Writing is the hardest thing to do. I am in love with the English language, the way it sounds, the rhythms of conversation. I like the meaning of words, their weight, explicit and implicit. I like the how human language is, the individual interpretation. Yet, writing does not come easy for me. It is work. As genuine my love is for language, at times I get an uneasy feeling that my love of writing is similar to puppy love. Puppy love being no more than infatuation with the idea of being in love. In this case, I fear that I may merely be in love with the idea of writing.
My favorite part of reading is picking apart and looking at the language that the author employs. It goes beyond plot, dialog, and the individual aspects of language that you’re taught to dissect in a standard English class. It is a holistic experience. The feel that words can gain by mere consequence of structure is powerful. Consider a phrase that states “little work needs to be done, as process is inconsequential,” when one can say “easy automatic.” Say that last bit aloud. The simplicity and effectiveness of meaning is astounding, but it is also so much more. I am not fawning over simplifying an unnecessarily verbose sentence into an equivocal one that says the same thing with fewer words. The way that the words sound together gives them each far more power than they would otherwise have on their own. The con-notations of the words that one immediately feels upon hearing them together gives depth to what is otherwise quite a silly and low class way of saying “little work needs to be done, as process is inconsequential”. I’m going to take a moment here to emphasize this. Speaking strictly for myself, as I assume that at all points that I am insane and in the minority, I process words differently when I hear them. And I like that. I really do.
I am done belaboring. I was tempted for a minute to go into etymology, but when I feel so compelled, I can control myself. I assure you though, it would have been the bee’s knees. But that is not where this piece is heading. I must get back to the thesis, as any good god-fearing English teacher will tell you that that is where it is at. While conscious my mind tends to wander to strange places that either frighten me, or compel me to believe that I am a genius (I differentiate conscious and subconscious here, because trust me….you do not want know my Freudian psyche). I must share this with the world; I must write! After all, the most modest creation is far more valuable than the idea themselves. Ideas are by nature cheap. Therein lays the problem. The inherent lack of intrinsic value in an idea; they are easy come, easy go. In the end, writing (and the creative process in general) ultimately becomes about execution. To even consider bringing something out of the swirling nether of my mind into the tangible world is at once both exhilarating and horrifying. Adversely, the prospect of failure is paralyzing. This is the biggest contributor to my writer’s block than anything else. I can start out with a basic concept, and perhaps a few lines to go along with it. I then scribe a hopefully interesting hook. As it was hammered into my head in middle school English courses, the hook can be the first and last thing your audience will read. It is called the motivator for a reason. Utmost importance and such. But this leads to a question that everybody who sets out to create faces at one point and must contend with. Where do I go now? If I have any solid characters, I like to find out who they are as I go along. I don’t bother setting out without a strong grounding that has a good well of potential. Still, it is that writer’s block. I can usually manage to grapple about a paragraph or two from the previously mentioned unfathomable ether, until the strange powers that be who delegate in my mind decide that taking apart and rebuilding my pen is a far more valuable and fruitful endeavor. Is this truly who I am? What could I ever hope to do to remedy it?
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