Words

 

Today I was thinking of writing about my true love: writing.  For a reader, it’s an idea built through the combination of words and sentences.  It is something that is external, extraneous in fact, and may add to ones perception but doesn’t necessarily clarify the perception that already exists since how can anyone, but you, know how you feel and see the world.   Words are the paint that go on a canvas of perception, but they will never equally represent our feelings.   Words reduce feelings down to something tangible, something translatable, something explainable. 

When I sit down to write, I only have a very general idea what I will write about.  It’s almost like my fingers become possessed with sentiment, and my keyboard is my source of ventilation.  The technical part of my writing is average, at best.  It requires editing and re-editing.  Sometimes I go back to previous pieces and wonder if I am at all literate.  It just doesn’t make sense.  I tend to add extraneous words that are unnecessary to carry the idea.  Knowing this, I continue to do it time and time again.  I guess it’s a by-product of my emotional intensity when I write.  I simply have no self-discipline.

I have written poetry for decades (I was going to be more specific but don’t want to age myself).  The beauty of poetry is having the ability to express myself without forming a complete sentence.  In fact, not forming a sentence is a requirement for it to be poetry (at least in my rule book).  The idea is to express only the words that lay out the critical elements of that emotional experience, leaving the trivial words for the reader to figure out.  Unfortunately, not all readers want to do that kind of work, so the poet excludes those readers as potential recipients of your prose.  I wish I was formally trained in English, or had a natural ability to form sentences.  It certainly would make it less labor intensive to spill my feelings out on paper (or screen).  Unfortunately, I am deficient of both, having an Economics degree, and lacking that natural instinct.  My son, who hates to read and write, is a better technical writer than I am, and has a great imagination to go along with it.  With a little bit of practice, he could probably be the next Pulitzer Prize winner.

Despite my challenges I still love it and will continue writing until the day I die.  I hope you continue to read it.  

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