So how was your Thanksgiving? Mine was a lot of fun. I’m really fat. Shouldn’t have eaten so much, but I didn’t want to worry about it. So I didn’t. I ate tons. My estimate was about 20,000 calories in just under 4 hours. It’s probably not a record, but it’s a small wonder I didn’t explode. Went for a walk afterwards and I definitely “ambled” better than usual…
But even in my chubby state, all the time I was wondering if any of it was usable for the book. It was a holiday; I wasn’t supposed to be “working.” But that’s always the way. Pretty much every waking moment gets scanned. It’s sort of always been this way—this compulsion to preserve everything. And even the things I know aren’t particularly worthy. Like this: These are cool characters on Word 2004. ❧ 龤 They probably don’t come through in html, but that’s not interesting, is it? No. That’s useless babble. It isn’t even particularly interesting. But…
But to me, that’s what good writing is. It’s like breathing, so natural and unchecked you don’t even question it. It’s impossible to write well if you’re thinking about writing well. We have to get past all the self-censoring thoughts and the idea that everything has already been said much better than we could. Of course it’s already been said better—in a way. But the way you would say it is also significant. Remembering that is crucial, and often the first task of writing. It’s a battle of continually choosing the self-important idea that you have something of value to share.
Your way of seeing and expressing familiar ideas is significant. That’s who you are, you little narcissist. And people love to see who you are, how you see things, your ideas, your self. They like to experience your insights because in everything is the reflection of themselves: the books they read, the screens they watch, the children they bear, the gods they serve. They want to see it all created in their own image, for their pleasure and edification. It can be seen as sinister and deplorable, or it can be seen as a beautiful aspect of human nature. We all live within the paradox: wanting to know we’re unique, special unto ourselves, but also that we’re not alone in the world. Someone else sees it, feels it, knows it too.
There’s the conflict that keeps me scanning my whole life for fodder. All of us are completely alone and yet we’re all made of the exact same stuff as everyone. It’s both our curse and our asset. Of course, we don’t talk about it on the page, but maybe that’s one of the benefits of blogs. It’s there—in our writing and our daily lives. Meaning is experienced through relationships, both in affirming and denying our individualities. And it’s experienced through writers’ eyes in the same way…
It’s all interconnected. And to me, it’s a beautiful, terrifying thing.
“we’re all made of the exact same stuff as everyone”
About now that “stuff” would be turkey, dressing, cranberry sauce, sweet potato casserole, pumpkin pie . . .
I’m glad you had a good Thanksgiving. 20,000 calories! Wow. That’s, um, amazing. My Thanksgiving was also fun. But I’m not any fatter than before. Sorry.
I know exactly what you’re talking about here. (Of course I do. That was your point, right?) I’m always writing in my head about whatever is happening to me or around me. Finding the perfect metaphor or embracing the irony — seeing life as story.
I suppose some might argue living that way robs one of simply experiencing life. But I think observing life as it happens enhances it. How else can the ordinary become a “beautiful, terrifying thing”?
Yeah. So, have fun watching yourself roll through the holiday season, Mick. ;o)
as ransom might’ve said to the green lady, after weston encouraged her to stand alongside and see herself: (paraphrasing v.roughly) “it’s a load of crap, you realize that, don’t you.”