Musings for a Moment

There is a movie I've seen only once, but which I've thought about off and on for years. I don't think it got particularly raving reviews; in fact with every scroll of the reel its credits are lined with a list of retirees and has-beens. And yet, I can't stop thinking about it. In one of the scenes a gifted student is speaking to a recluse novelist about the intricacies of writing and, after being invited to sit at the typewriter and put something on paper, the student is chastised for taking time to think of what to say before he types. "No thinking. That comes later. You write your first draft with your heart; you rewrite with your head. The first key to writing...is to write. Not to think."

And thus we have my first offense: I think too damn much. And in thinking, I sit and in sitting I stop and in stopping I end all processes of creation, and in a way rob myself and you. That is why I have decided to write this blog with no topic in mind, letting my heart do the typing. And just for a splash of spice and good measure, I'm writing this after midnight. My eyes are shut with finger on the trigger...

Have you ever tried to understand your feelings by conjuring up an abstract mental image that best describes them? I tend to do that a lot, usually when I'm in the middle of one of those "sitting and thinking spells." Most often I use this technique when I'm writing to give a sense of reality to my characters or situations and it occasionally offers itself as a good deterrent to writer's block. But if I were to sit down and write a story about my feelings right now though, I think it would probably end with a case of my protagonist erupting in flames--the unlucky victim of spontaneous human combustion.

I have been tempted lately to smirk at the goop of ironies life has decided to spoon onto my plate. For some reason, writing a blog is tough for me; much like writing a journal. In the world of writing I fancy myself more of a magician, who paints illusions of reality before the readers eyes rather than delving into what is true and what is right. It is much easier for me to write down my thoughts and call me Ishmael than to write down my thoughts and call me Spencer.

And yet this experiment in blogging, which I have tried so hard to keep from the trash compactor of my mind still succeeds in producing a lot of garbage. Or at least, the thought of what I might put in it does. As a result, I fear each of my shots in the dark comes off as heavy and somewhat intimidating if my feelings while writing them are any indication.

I guess this leads me to the real rub of it all. Fear. Fear of failure. Fear of falling short. Fear of producing mundane or juvenile things. Fear that if anyone sees me for who am truly am, without the gloss of an hour or two's treatment, they might actually see a scar. Don't get me wrong, though. What I write (and in a good measure, how I act, what I say, or how I look) is truly a mark of who I am. I guess that's true for everyone to a certain extent; what you see is what you get. But I think in order to escape combustion on a metaphorical level, I need to start the journey away from the effected.