I wrote this in a comment on another blog recently. I decided to jot it down because it was speaking to me, rather loudly. Sometimes I push the words, and sometimes the words push me. These ones made themselves known across a fleeting precipice of my imagination meeting up with my thoughts and starting a fire.
When you think about it, this whole writing thing is such a tenuous matter. The nuance of what goes into a piece and what should be removed would seem, on the face of it, to be akin to tooling around under the hood- just a matter of nuts and bolts and gaskets. Except, writing is sort of like tooling around under the hood and somehow building a Hemi that is capable of space travel.
This line I wrote left me ponderous. This line whose particular sentiment can be easily explained as an emotional response to a post I was reading about the tragedy in Florida last week. And so, okay . . that’s the why of it, but that can’t explain the how of it. How is it that those words showed up in that particular moment? That’s what turns me on.
A writer’s brain feasts on the scrabble, never knowing what they might gather from the voices in their heads. Our imaginations are a natural disaster of the real and the unreal, the known and the unknown, the here and now and the never was. And from this feast we cull and carve and oftentimes, cry.
I like to think we’re communicating with the cosmos when we feast on the scrabble and make sense of the voices and sublime our imaginations. We step inside whole new worlds without ever leaving our feet. And sometimes we find a simple line that makes us wonder aloud. The song and the fight, all wrapped up in this beautiful mystery.
The not knowing is what’s lovely.