Holidailies Post 25 - On Writing and Keyboards...
Well, after missing two consecutive days due to being sick, I'm back. I really don't have an idea for a topic. I'm using an older laptop since my current one is suffering from massive hard drive failures. It feels weird using this one. Something's off with the keyboard, and I really don't know what it is.
I've said before how I enjoy the clicking of the keys beneath my fingers. There's something almost hypnotic about it. When the mood strikes properly, I have a tendency to not even look at the screen. It's like playing a piano, it just happens.
It tends to allow for more of a stream of consciousness type of writing. It's even more odd to feel your hand (finger) reach up to the backspace key of its own accord to fix a mistake that I didn't even see, I just felt it.
There were times in the past that I would write pages and pages in this manner. There were so many voices begging to be heard. More than once I was chastised for not typing fast enough to keep up. Even prior to having access to electronic means for writing, I would do this with a good old-fashioned pencil. The problem here was that my normally clear and precise print would transform into a strange hybrid of cursive and print that looked more like a scrawl. Hell, some times I couldn't even read what I had written myself.
It may sound odd to some to talk about hearing voices in a positive way. Normally, this is something that's written off to a person's being mentally unstable. While I'm not claiming to be entirely stable myself, I personally feel that I'm a far cry from crazy.
So what voices am I talking about? The voices of people that were in my stories, or at least the snatches of stories that I would cull together over time. Most of the characters from the old days came to me of their own accord. Sometimes I wouldn't even know for sure who was talking, all I could do was simply try to keep up with what they were telling me. In a sense, it felt like what I imagine automatic writing would feel like.
Old, young, middle-aged, it didn't matter. They would all speak to me. The only common thread amongst them would have to be that they weren't from around here. It was fun when I was able to get into it more. Let myself listen closer to what they were saying. Sometimes I was able to consciously ask them questions and get a response. Again, with my poor typing skills at the time, rarely could I write down what the question was that was being answered.
I haven't heard from my old friends in a while now. Granted, I've not really tried that hard to listen for them. Any writing exercises done where more thought out. A more traditional manner of creating a story, I guess. I wonder where they all went.
Even now, try as I might, I can't hear them. The ringing in my ears can be deafening at times, as it is now. I do miss them. I'd like to hear what they've been up to. I'd like to have them tell me a story to share with others.
One of the greatest things that has come about due to my involvement with Holidailies 2008 has been the number of compliments that I've received. One person put it rather succinctly, Maybe you should look more into this writing thing, you're pretty good at it. The fact that I was honored with two Best Of Holidailies was pretty encouraging, too. People that I don't know, who liked what I wrote. That's a pretty good bolster to a person's self-confidence.
Kat's mentioned that she would like to see me go back to my normal writings. Writings about Nakiel, something that I dreamed up over 20 years ago. It all came from a scribble on the top of a pop quiz I took in Sophomore English. Just one scribble, and it's led me to many, many places.
Fir trees so huge that ten men couldn't stretch their arms around them. So tall that the entire area was in a state of perpetual twilight. The Academy at Mercersberg. Senneth Tull, Lord of the Seven Marches. Demonbruenthall Sejenbane, who sought to provide justice in a decadent, decaying Empire (and who's name just happens to come from a street I would see when we would visit my grandparents in Nashville). An entire desert with pink sand. Why pink sand? How could this happen? At one point there was a gigantic coral reef there. Why is it a desert now? No idea.
But they know. That's how I'll find my answers. They'll tell me. And I'll listen.
Maybe I should look into this writing thing. It's nice to remember how fun it can be.
._._.
I've said before how I enjoy the clicking of the keys beneath my fingers. There's something almost hypnotic about it. When the mood strikes properly, I have a tendency to not even look at the screen. It's like playing a piano, it just happens.
It tends to allow for more of a stream of consciousness type of writing. It's even more odd to feel your hand (finger) reach up to the backspace key of its own accord to fix a mistake that I didn't even see, I just felt it.
There were times in the past that I would write pages and pages in this manner. There were so many voices begging to be heard. More than once I was chastised for not typing fast enough to keep up. Even prior to having access to electronic means for writing, I would do this with a good old-fashioned pencil. The problem here was that my normally clear and precise print would transform into a strange hybrid of cursive and print that looked more like a scrawl. Hell, some times I couldn't even read what I had written myself.
It may sound odd to some to talk about hearing voices in a positive way. Normally, this is something that's written off to a person's being mentally unstable. While I'm not claiming to be entirely stable myself, I personally feel that I'm a far cry from crazy.
So what voices am I talking about? The voices of people that were in my stories, or at least the snatches of stories that I would cull together over time. Most of the characters from the old days came to me of their own accord. Sometimes I wouldn't even know for sure who was talking, all I could do was simply try to keep up with what they were telling me. In a sense, it felt like what I imagine automatic writing would feel like.
Old, young, middle-aged, it didn't matter. They would all speak to me. The only common thread amongst them would have to be that they weren't from around here. It was fun when I was able to get into it more. Let myself listen closer to what they were saying. Sometimes I was able to consciously ask them questions and get a response. Again, with my poor typing skills at the time, rarely could I write down what the question was that was being answered.
I haven't heard from my old friends in a while now. Granted, I've not really tried that hard to listen for them. Any writing exercises done where more thought out. A more traditional manner of creating a story, I guess. I wonder where they all went.
Even now, try as I might, I can't hear them. The ringing in my ears can be deafening at times, as it is now. I do miss them. I'd like to hear what they've been up to. I'd like to have them tell me a story to share with others.
One of the greatest things that has come about due to my involvement with Holidailies 2008 has been the number of compliments that I've received. One person put it rather succinctly, Maybe you should look more into this writing thing, you're pretty good at it. The fact that I was honored with two Best Of Holidailies was pretty encouraging, too. People that I don't know, who liked what I wrote. That's a pretty good bolster to a person's self-confidence.
Kat's mentioned that she would like to see me go back to my normal writings. Writings about Nakiel, something that I dreamed up over 20 years ago. It all came from a scribble on the top of a pop quiz I took in Sophomore English. Just one scribble, and it's led me to many, many places.
Fir trees so huge that ten men couldn't stretch their arms around them. So tall that the entire area was in a state of perpetual twilight. The Academy at Mercersberg. Senneth Tull, Lord of the Seven Marches. Demonbruenthall Sejenbane, who sought to provide justice in a decadent, decaying Empire (and who's name just happens to come from a street I would see when we would visit my grandparents in Nashville). An entire desert with pink sand. Why pink sand? How could this happen? At one point there was a gigantic coral reef there. Why is it a desert now? No idea.
But they know. That's how I'll find my answers. They'll tell me. And I'll listen.
Maybe I should look into this writing thing. It's nice to remember how fun it can be.
._._.