Once more into the fray. Writers write. That's what someone told me, that's what someone told them, and so we go. I suppose it's true, although you might argue that even if you...oh never mind. I just reconsidered what I was about to say. And isn't that the age-old question? Should I really...say, do, think, act, eat, drink...whatever it is, perhaps at the minute of self-consciousness, we stop. Or perhaps we carry on, fuelled by our audience, or lack of one. There's always that point you reach, especially while writing, where you just get tangled up in yourself. Sometimes it leads to genius. Whatever anger or frustration or emotion propelled you there in the first place ignites. Sometimes...it's just a big tangled mess.
My big tangled mess has effectively shut me up for too long, so I am mixing my metaphors, grabbing the reins, patting the horse, and riding off once again across the empty prairie of page. It sounds so romantic that way. I'll ignore the fact that I've barely had a lucid creative thought since I set foot on these shores, for whatever reason, and pat and coax out of hiding whatever might still be around. Maybe all those thoughts are on that other dimension, as the singer sang, as my iPhone revealed to me late last night when for some reason I flicked through my photos, and had the odd feeling that the half of the new photo that revealed itself had somehow been waiting for me to find it. I'm looking again, hang the expense.
Writers write. But I'd like to think I am doing this because I have to, not because I need to justify my existence in the face of an extremely uninterested world. What topics shall I cover? Oh, the usual ones, political and social ranting, perhaps mixed with obsessions. You know. Clever rants, interspersed with whimsy. Or not. Anyway, there is nothing more dull than writing about what one is going to write about, so I'll stop.
What I do want to consider for a moment, before I stop, and actually do what I am supposed to be doing...wait. That's an interesting concept. Why don't I think this is exactly what I am supposed to be doing, exactly why I am here? Like the Pink Floyd song, where no one tells you to run, I have to wonder if that's part of the problem. A couple of years ago, I suddenly felt like I'd been let off the leash, and produced something that changed my life in many ways, even if it changed nothing for anyone else. I'll contemplate permissions now, without getting into the equally sticky and boring area of transgression, and send this off into space, which really has to be better than the bottom of the drawer, under the socks, particularly that one with the hole in it, and return with my thoughts, equally run through, in order to exist.
Writers write.
