I haven’t meant to abandon my baby blog. A large part of me assumes that no one even reads this snarky little piece of self-centered whining anyway. No, scratch that. My entirety knows that no one reads this thing. And really, I’m alright with that. Writing isn’t supposed to be for other people. It’s not supposed to be written with the intent of anyone’s approval.
Writing, for me, has always been that supportive safety net that catches you when you hurl yourself from the death cliff of poor life decisions. Or, when life does it for you with no regard to you. I’ve realized that writing, whether you believe it or not in this vastly competitive world of literary scholars, is not supposed to be judged and weighed and measured in the manner that we do. There are key factors that set my teeth on edge. Simple things that should be emphasized and corrected: poor spelling, grammar, incomplete thoughts, etc. (even though no one is quite as flighty as yours truly.) Plainly put, though, there is a place for that–the judging. But in the world of art, it should be done with a gentle tongue and thoughtful eye.
Art is a reflection of whatever is brewing inside of you spewed out into the universe. It’s taking something ugly and amorphous and giving it shape, giving it beauty.
And it belongs to no one, that freedom. It’s everywhere and it’s nowhere, in my most vague and incomprehensible definition.
My point–did I have a point?–is that writing is something primal for me. It’s something that has been of great comfort and release throughout the entirety of my life, and it’s disgustingly easy to fall into a vicious vortex of what did you think? or what would you change? Which, in the midst of trying to edit a manuscript and compose an impossible to compose summary, was happening to me. Criticism is good and wonderful and terribly necessary, but the desperate way we sometimes seek it out can strip away the true meaning of what writing is.
We all want to be better writers. Well, those of us who write do. The fear in that, for me, is losing the loveliness of raw and unedited art. In the constant polishing and rearranging, do we lose the uniqueness to uniformity? I guess that is probably a genuine fear for a lot of us.
Anyway, that’s where I’ve been. Contemplating life and it’s facets and how and where my reflection shines in each one. Or, something else, but nothing that sounds quite so fabulously pretentious.