Re-reading what you have written after a few hour break has to be one of the most painful things one can do to a Blog. My spelling simply is horrible and my grammar not much better. Thank you for the little "edit" key..
But for now, sleep.
Til next time.
06 April, 2002
Obviously, it has been a great deal of time since I have written here. This deserves some explanation.
There is something inherently self-absorbed about typing an online journal. In doing so, you can't quite escape the idea that it lumps you in with thousands of teenage girls all writing their "truly deepest thoughts" so that others may be impressed with how profound and deep they are. Even though they carefully edit each and every word to conform to what is politically correct with the crowd they hang around with in high school. So to make this worthwhile not just for myself but for the reader, I really needed to stop and think about what I wanted to accomplish with this little niche of cyber-space.
My principal goal remains to use this place to work on my writing. For it to be a means by which I can increase my skill and confidence in being able to craft a well written story or essay. I struggle greatly with my writing, and I continue to look at it as not good enough. Therefore, in the skewed logic of emotional turpidity, I avoid writing. But in doing so, I am not doing myself justice. I have been told several times, both by people that I know and teachers, professors and even people that I worked for and produced products for, that I write well. Yet this has not been enough for me to escape my own feeling that my writing is never "good enough". I want my prose to naturally be, withour revision or rewrite, as good as what I saw in Hemmingway's "The Old Man and the Sea". Which, frankly is silly and impossible. I do not know how much Hemmingway re-wrote and re-crafted his stories, but I firmly believe what Jay Atkinson taught in his classes. That writing is craft, paragraphs are there to be honed and shaped by writing and re-writing and revision and time. I thing that the first draft of a manuscript, while it may be inspired, can be polished to become something even more beautiful.
My problem is this, I am an inspiration writer. I write from my train of thought. My words speak to this page from a mental voice, saying out loud to my fingers what I wish to appear. In many ways, my written speach parallels very closely the way in which I speak. This is both an advantage and a handicap. It is an advantage, as for many people, having a book "speak" to them as if some one was there telling them a story, hearing the author's inflection and tone, is what makes a published word enjoyable. This is why novels are on the New York Times Bestseller list and not textbooks. Few and far between are the textbooks bought for the enjoyment of reading them, while most novels are bought simply for that purpose. The last act of genius that will ever be accomplished in the world is by the person who writes a math text book where people read it as if it was the latest in the Harry Potter series. It is a problem as it makes it that much harder to revise. Once you say something, how often do you sit and re-say it? With the goal of perhaps editing it and re-saying, only to do this once again till you have what you wanted to say in the most colorful yet terse sentance. People do not naturally wish to edit their words. That is why, the phrase "what I meant to say" conveys so much embarrasement with out the slightest indication in the words of any shame or chagrin.
So I am conflicted. Which is a problem and also a gift. Conflict by its nature, provides energy and inspiration. It provides a means by which what is strongest is discovered. Many would argue that which is strongest is not always best, nor does it account for luck, Goliath still is the fearsome giant, and David, the pipsqueak whom fortune (or God) smiled upon. But conflict, is the best I have, and by which, is what I will have to make due with.
So, why do a Blog at all? Here I am, condeming this to be a superficial adolescent exercise in sheer futility as I am hopessly perfectionistic and conflicted about what I what from this. Would seem to be an exercise in self-destructive behavior, no?
I am writing here, because there is part of me that does have something to say. I have many ideas that float through my head. Maybe they are all bad ideas, worthless and just so much drivel, or maybe in them there is a element of truth. I don't know. I like to think that perhaps there is some truth to them. That the thoughts and ideas that I want to express will give some one pause to think, to consider and reflect. That maybe some one who reads something here someday will have a choice phrase or sentance pop into their head, and it means something more to them than just a few words on a screen. I would like to think that my writing someday makes a difference to some one. That some one, some place, finds it to be something to keep.
Jay Atkinson faulted me for my attempted at an ending on the sole essay I managed to submit, and I am afraid I am going to fail here as well. I don't know really how to close this little note. I think probably because I have so much more I want to say. But for now, real life requires that I stop, and deal with its demands.
Til next time.
There is something inherently self-absorbed about typing an online journal. In doing so, you can't quite escape the idea that it lumps you in with thousands of teenage girls all writing their "truly deepest thoughts" so that others may be impressed with how profound and deep they are. Even though they carefully edit each and every word to conform to what is politically correct with the crowd they hang around with in high school. So to make this worthwhile not just for myself but for the reader, I really needed to stop and think about what I wanted to accomplish with this little niche of cyber-space.
My principal goal remains to use this place to work on my writing. For it to be a means by which I can increase my skill and confidence in being able to craft a well written story or essay. I struggle greatly with my writing, and I continue to look at it as not good enough. Therefore, in the skewed logic of emotional turpidity, I avoid writing. But in doing so, I am not doing myself justice. I have been told several times, both by people that I know and teachers, professors and even people that I worked for and produced products for, that I write well. Yet this has not been enough for me to escape my own feeling that my writing is never "good enough". I want my prose to naturally be, withour revision or rewrite, as good as what I saw in Hemmingway's "The Old Man and the Sea". Which, frankly is silly and impossible. I do not know how much Hemmingway re-wrote and re-crafted his stories, but I firmly believe what Jay Atkinson taught in his classes. That writing is craft, paragraphs are there to be honed and shaped by writing and re-writing and revision and time. I thing that the first draft of a manuscript, while it may be inspired, can be polished to become something even more beautiful.
My problem is this, I am an inspiration writer. I write from my train of thought. My words speak to this page from a mental voice, saying out loud to my fingers what I wish to appear. In many ways, my written speach parallels very closely the way in which I speak. This is both an advantage and a handicap. It is an advantage, as for many people, having a book "speak" to them as if some one was there telling them a story, hearing the author's inflection and tone, is what makes a published word enjoyable. This is why novels are on the New York Times Bestseller list and not textbooks. Few and far between are the textbooks bought for the enjoyment of reading them, while most novels are bought simply for that purpose. The last act of genius that will ever be accomplished in the world is by the person who writes a math text book where people read it as if it was the latest in the Harry Potter series. It is a problem as it makes it that much harder to revise. Once you say something, how often do you sit and re-say it? With the goal of perhaps editing it and re-saying, only to do this once again till you have what you wanted to say in the most colorful yet terse sentance. People do not naturally wish to edit their words. That is why, the phrase "what I meant to say" conveys so much embarrasement with out the slightest indication in the words of any shame or chagrin.
So I am conflicted. Which is a problem and also a gift. Conflict by its nature, provides energy and inspiration. It provides a means by which what is strongest is discovered. Many would argue that which is strongest is not always best, nor does it account for luck, Goliath still is the fearsome giant, and David, the pipsqueak whom fortune (or God) smiled upon. But conflict, is the best I have, and by which, is what I will have to make due with.
So, why do a Blog at all? Here I am, condeming this to be a superficial adolescent exercise in sheer futility as I am hopessly perfectionistic and conflicted about what I what from this. Would seem to be an exercise in self-destructive behavior, no?
I am writing here, because there is part of me that does have something to say. I have many ideas that float through my head. Maybe they are all bad ideas, worthless and just so much drivel, or maybe in them there is a element of truth. I don't know. I like to think that perhaps there is some truth to them. That the thoughts and ideas that I want to express will give some one pause to think, to consider and reflect. That maybe some one who reads something here someday will have a choice phrase or sentance pop into their head, and it means something more to them than just a few words on a screen. I would like to think that my writing someday makes a difference to some one. That some one, some place, finds it to be something to keep.
Jay Atkinson faulted me for my attempted at an ending on the sole essay I managed to submit, and I am afraid I am going to fail here as well. I don't know really how to close this little note. I think probably because I have so much more I want to say. But for now, real life requires that I stop, and deal with its demands.
Til next time.
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