It is our Independence Day, or at least mine. And this is my official declaration of intent to remain independent, of all the negative dross which can drag a creative writer down. [Oh, yeah, and "Pan's Labyrinth" is paused on the DVD.]
This is the thing.
It really settled on me the other day while revisiting the past at the Cleveland Art Museum's reopening, and after asking myself a bunch of silly questions of why I should continue to write and publish--why me, what is my importance.
And simply, the true basics of it all is that I write for the delicious feel of it. It takes my emotions everywhere, making me happy, or sad, or whatever "they," "my" characters, are emoting about. I actually "feel" it within me. It's as profound as time travel, teleporting, being in love, being in hate, or being indifferent. Whether I'm experiencing it in space, in Victorian England, or as an African vampire.
It's on the page, simple paper and ink, tiny pixels of daydreams and nightmares, but it makes, causes an actual "shift" within me, that is tangible. Not unlike the peculiar and shocking feeling I once had when a certain person looked at me at a party, and I "fell" inside. I had the distinctive feel of falling through soft space, which I remember all too clearly.
So, why is love for a person easier to remember than love personified in the body of a novel, script, or short story? Because it's easier to explain, probably.
But the feeling, THAT feeling. I take if for granted, and have pooh-poohed it to some extent because it is such an inherent part of me. But if I can craft this and have it make me feel this way, I should remember that others have told me so in their own way, or that even more others will feel it too, just by reading what I've written.
So then, who the heck am I to be so bourgeois and forgetful of this and to pooh anything? True feelings are precious and shared ones even more so, so those of us who write naked.
Don't lose the feeling my friends, and don't ever forget it, neglect it, or push it aside to die in hiding. Write and publish.
This is my official testimony. Do you feel it too?
This is the thing.
It really settled on me the other day while revisiting the past at the Cleveland Art Museum's reopening, and after asking myself a bunch of silly questions of why I should continue to write and publish--why me, what is my importance.
And simply, the true basics of it all is that I write for the delicious feel of it. It takes my emotions everywhere, making me happy, or sad, or whatever "they," "my" characters, are emoting about. I actually "feel" it within me. It's as profound as time travel, teleporting, being in love, being in hate, or being indifferent. Whether I'm experiencing it in space, in Victorian England, or as an African vampire.
It's on the page, simple paper and ink, tiny pixels of daydreams and nightmares, but it makes, causes an actual "shift" within me, that is tangible. Not unlike the peculiar and shocking feeling I once had when a certain person looked at me at a party, and I "fell" inside. I had the distinctive feel of falling through soft space, which I remember all too clearly.
So, why is love for a person easier to remember than love personified in the body of a novel, script, or short story? Because it's easier to explain, probably.
But the feeling, THAT feeling. I take if for granted, and have pooh-poohed it to some extent because it is such an inherent part of me. But if I can craft this and have it make me feel this way, I should remember that others have told me so in their own way, or that even more others will feel it too, just by reading what I've written.
So then, who the heck am I to be so bourgeois and forgetful of this and to pooh anything? True feelings are precious and shared ones even more so, so those of us who write naked.
Don't lose the feeling my friends, and don't ever forget it, neglect it, or push it aside to die in hiding. Write and publish.
This is my official testimony. Do you feel it too?
