Spinning Spun Yarns
In one of my earliest entries I stated that I desire to write creatively again. It has been nearly 5 years since I penned anything other than that which is related to audiology. Currently, I am co-authoring a journal article based on a research project of late. Very streamlined, technical writing, rife with statistics and minus any "fat".
But the characters are a-calling. Again. Clamoring, begging for me to tell their stories, to express their insights. I step away from the keyboard, ignore the muse, but I always return. The sirens began their wail some, I dunno, 30 plus years ago? I remember writing short stories in elementary school, even creating construction paper covers (with crude artwork) for them. Writing has always been a perversely pleasureable pursuit. Huh. That was alliterative! Anyway, I've long had this thing about strings of words, thoughts. Sometimes, cohesive narratives occur. While I create these worlds, I also feel as if I'm slowly slicing my wrists with shards of glass. I suspect many writers experience this. Masochistic process, it is. The end result makes it worthwhile. Martin Scorsese expressed as similiar sentiment in regards to film directing.
Many writers also experience long periods of inactivity. My last productive period occured in late '02/2003, but then graduate school forced me to put the fluorishes aside. Before that, I actually had a few pieces appear on online lit sites. I would certainly love to be published. There is still a part of me that doesn't feel like I've really been published until my words on on actual paper, bound between covers you can touch. Although, in this age of e-books that ideal may be dated.
So in the next few months, I will complete the travails of a certain Mrs. Hildebrandt, whose bittersweet exploits I began to detail but never resolved. There is so much to express, so many ideas to gel in my mind, and on paper. I can still pluck bits from real life, then combine them with fantastical scenarios. It's a part of me.
But the characters are a-calling. Again. Clamoring, begging for me to tell their stories, to express their insights. I step away from the keyboard, ignore the muse, but I always return. The sirens began their wail some, I dunno, 30 plus years ago? I remember writing short stories in elementary school, even creating construction paper covers (with crude artwork) for them. Writing has always been a perversely pleasureable pursuit. Huh. That was alliterative! Anyway, I've long had this thing about strings of words, thoughts. Sometimes, cohesive narratives occur. While I create these worlds, I also feel as if I'm slowly slicing my wrists with shards of glass. I suspect many writers experience this. Masochistic process, it is. The end result makes it worthwhile. Martin Scorsese expressed as similiar sentiment in regards to film directing.
Many writers also experience long periods of inactivity. My last productive period occured in late '02/2003, but then graduate school forced me to put the fluorishes aside. Before that, I actually had a few pieces appear on online lit sites. I would certainly love to be published. There is still a part of me that doesn't feel like I've really been published until my words on on actual paper, bound between covers you can touch. Although, in this age of e-books that ideal may be dated.
So in the next few months, I will complete the travails of a certain Mrs. Hildebrandt, whose bittersweet exploits I began to detail but never resolved. There is so much to express, so many ideas to gel in my mind, and on paper. I can still pluck bits from real life, then combine them with fantastical scenarios. It's a part of me.
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