Tuesday, March 30, 2010

On Writing.

Dear Globlets,

I like to write. Although it is not always easy to do - sometimes because of writer's block, lack of a good starting point, etc. - it is something I feel I can always go back to when I need to. I can confine my darkest secrets to an electronic piece of paper without the fear of the page spitting the words back in my face and asking how I could even think of doing or saying such a thing. Furthermore, there are times when I need to let something out that I do not have anyone to tell. By "let something out" I mean a kind of burning itch that is located somewhere between my brain and my chest. It can last up to several days. At this point it might be wise to consult a physician seeing as "itchy, burning sensations" for long periods of time are often regarded as special clues, or as I like to call "symptoms" or "side effects" depending on the kind of medication you take. However, I do prefer to wait until it goes away OR write. On paper, I can be as clear or as vague and as literal or as figurative as I see fit; therefore, writing is by far the best medication for my mind.

I am truly grateful to have the opportunity to share my writing with other people. With services like The Internet and Blogspot, along with readers and followers, my writing seems to be worth more. If I can make you laugh, hell, if I can make your lip twitch in an almost-smile, I'm accomplishing something. If I can make you think, or better yet, if I can make you feel, then I'm accomplishing exactly what I should as a writer.

Knowing that someone, somewhere, might read this makes me feel as though typing away on this digital typewriter means just a little bit more. I cannot really explain why. I suppose if I were writing novels that no one read, I would be disinclined to continue writing. In a similar manner, if no one sat in the audience, I would also be disinclined to get on the stage. Nevertheless, once in a while, one might need to realize that the show should go on. Even if you find yourself sending seemingly unimportant messages to the incredible, invisible, infinite Internet without a single soul to give you a mere thumbs up, you should still write. I did.

I have always written. I've probably written thousands of pages by now, although that may not be saying much. I started with poems that I would send to my grandma from Chile and then went to songs which had such special meanings that I frequently found myself unable to understand where my own ideas came from. This carried out for years past my return to Canada. Of course, I thought that it was all garbage. Nevertheless, I continued writing and had something like 13 chapters of a intensely detailed novel by the time I was between 12-14. My favourite English assignments were when I had to write a story based on a picture, and I still love doing that. Writing may be in my blood, after all. My mom is a great writer and a fantastic editor whom I would undoubtedly die without. My grand-uncle on my father's side is also a very well-known Chilean writer. My great-grandmother on my mother's side also used to write poetry. In addition, I have tons of artists in my extended family.

Writing has always made me feel good when I found that justice had to be made, however small or personal; when I was examining the preposterousness of religion; when I couldn't fall asleep because my pillow had become too damp from my crying; when I couldn't say aloud what my heart or mind was screaming; when I wanted to set the record straight; when I needed to complain about some outrageously mundane thing that happens to everyone; or when I simply had something I wanted to say. For these reasons, when something obstructs my path to writing when I need to, my heart sinks. It is a similar feeling to when I miss my bus, my plane, or my ferry. These things never happen, with the exception of an occasional ferry, but the feeling I get for having almost missed my ride of whatever sort is nearly equal to that of missing the opportunity to write. I hate it when "the ship has sailed" without me, especially when I can never get it back, when there is never another sailing again. It's like having your heart broken a tiny bit.
Note: this is why they invented notebooks and tape recorders.

If I were stranded on a deserted island, naturally, I would want a raft with oars, maybe a couple dozen full water bottles, some sun block, a telescope, a lighter and a knife. However, provided this was impossible and I was trapped on a deserted island and could not ask for nourishment or any devices that might aid in my survival, rescue or escape, I would wish to have a pen and some paper. They would be the most use to me if I knew I would not survive. I could stab myself with the pen or slit my wrists with paper. "Death by paper-cut it shall be!" Well, no, you know what I meant.

When I write, it is as though my thoughts are solidified onto a page from the gaseous state they can originally be found in as they exit my ears in white clouds of thought. They are extracted from my brain, and, once extracted, often go about their day in the untouchable World Wide Web OR remain forever hidden on my hard drive. In doing so, my brain is significantly less affected by these thoughts, and then I too can go about my day.

There you have it, Globlets. Another post that turned out to be about something completely different from what I had intended it to be. Oh, and it's long too!

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