As a writer I'm good with words. I love words. I collect them, find new ones, polish them, learn them, add them to my repertoire like marbles in a chest. You know what I always wanted? A chest full of broken glass, clear glass, with lights in the walls of the chest. So when you opened it, it would just explode with refracted light from no particular source.
I digress...
Anyway, I'm good with words. Most of the time I can say what I mean. I'm wordy when I write stories because I like to make sure that I'm understood.
As a writer I depend on words. Couldn't get through a day without a story in my head.
But as a writer I also know that there's a point at which words get singularly useless. Sight can stupefy the mouth. So can sound. Hell, virtually anything can strike me speechless, given the right ingredients. Something shakes me, disturbs me, surprises me, touches me, inspires me, awes me... speech is the first thing to go.
That's the trouble with real life, with talking to real people and not just in my head, to my characters. You can't rewrite. Not that I really want to, I've never had a regret about anything I've done or said. But that's the thing. You only get the one chance to say something just how you mean it. Sometimes it works. Sometimes not. Sometimes the word you want isn't there. Sometimes it doesn't exist. That's not always bad. Sometimes you find another word, or a phrase, that you wouldn't have picked otherwise, but is unexpectedly sublime... That's how I tend to talk. I talk so much because every so often, once about every three months, something comes out of my mouth--I can't say I say it, because it's more like a bolt out of the blue through me, it surprises me as much as anyone--something comes out of my mouth that is so true, so right, so perfect that I can't stand it. It literally makes me weep.
So I talk, and talk, and talk a lot of bullshit because the more bullshit I talk, the more likely it is that that bolt will hit, and another one of those inspirations, like a sudden sunbeam through a knothole or a crack that strikes you right in the eyes, and hell, it hurts, but it's like being transfixed, you can't look away, and you can hear it ringing in the air, it makes a sound like a bell going off in my head...and that's what I live for. Those inspirations.
Hm. Not sure where I was going with this. Probably best off heading for bed. I raise my cup of... um, pineapple juice to ye, B. Remind me to ask you how that job-hunting thing went.
Labels: Art, Brendon, Introspection
posted by Rivaine # 2:45 AM 
