over our heads, light keeps passing through
after a brief (okay, not so brief) hiatus, i return to you now.
it's funny, i have thought all sorts of great thoughts. i don't know if by world standards they are great, but for me, they are. and when presented with this blinking window which can be used to share, i'm struck mute. i think my hands have a hard time communicating with my head, or i have some hidden shame about sharing my ideas that buries them at a chance of seeing light (this is, of course, because inner light is much different than sunlight. sure, i might have illuminated some great things to myself, but unless they're spoken or written, they really don't exist, except that i know they do. and existing is really all we're trying to do here, isn't it?).
i think this is why i seem to have lost my ability to write. sure, i can look back on previous stuff and nitpick it to death (yes, i know that awkward sentences just come naturally to me; yes, i know, i can be trite in subject matter), but i think the real problem is that i don't think my words have much resonance. and in the big scheme of things, they really don't, but when your own voice doesn't match the voice you want to convey, it's tricky. it's like seeing a picture in your head and trying to draw it (and i don't see my world in stick figures).
i like my thoughts. i like the stories i create. do i like them when they become external to me? i don't know. maybe that's what being a truly great writer is, is being able to convey accurately those pictures in your head that are painted with hues not limited to a roy g biv colour wheel. it's a photo and being in a place. the two are the same thing, but completely aren't. i can show you a photo of me on the beach, but does that mean you have felt the sandblast every time the wind kicked up, or felt the sun burning my skin?
i've already picked my weapon of choice, but i need to learn how to better attack.
amanda
it's funny, i have thought all sorts of great thoughts. i don't know if by world standards they are great, but for me, they are. and when presented with this blinking window which can be used to share, i'm struck mute. i think my hands have a hard time communicating with my head, or i have some hidden shame about sharing my ideas that buries them at a chance of seeing light (this is, of course, because inner light is much different than sunlight. sure, i might have illuminated some great things to myself, but unless they're spoken or written, they really don't exist, except that i know they do. and existing is really all we're trying to do here, isn't it?).
i think this is why i seem to have lost my ability to write. sure, i can look back on previous stuff and nitpick it to death (yes, i know that awkward sentences just come naturally to me; yes, i know, i can be trite in subject matter), but i think the real problem is that i don't think my words have much resonance. and in the big scheme of things, they really don't, but when your own voice doesn't match the voice you want to convey, it's tricky. it's like seeing a picture in your head and trying to draw it (and i don't see my world in stick figures).
i like my thoughts. i like the stories i create. do i like them when they become external to me? i don't know. maybe that's what being a truly great writer is, is being able to convey accurately those pictures in your head that are painted with hues not limited to a roy g biv colour wheel. it's a photo and being in a place. the two are the same thing, but completely aren't. i can show you a photo of me on the beach, but does that mean you have felt the sandblast every time the wind kicked up, or felt the sun burning my skin?
i've already picked my weapon of choice, but i need to learn how to better attack.
amanda