On Writing #1

I miss that sudden rush of things clicking together when I write. Whether it was poetry or fiction, or an article due in the wee hours of the morning, I miss that moment when your heartbeat quickens and you lose all sense of self, of being who you are and just focus on the words that seemingly spill out of your fingers and onto the page. There used to be days when I would just sit down and write, without cause or care, except to release a torrent of words that were clamoring to get out of some obscure and inexplicable part of my body.

Now, I chose my words more carefully, wanting to derieve a certain kind of effect from the reader. I control the torrent, releasing just a mere trickle, enough to satiate the thirst but not enough to drown. For a reader to remember the taste, one must always withhold the best part, the part they most want to know, dangle it above them like a treat that they must work for. This is not cruelty on the part of the writer - this is knowing that, in the end, the satisfaction of the reader must be met.

However, to be in control is to master your own impulses, to be discreet when one appears in print, to realize that words have permanence. Each written word is another chip in the stone of immortality, that cliche that binds sculptors and writers together. I write about myself, but only to a certain degree. The trick is to never let your reader know where the line is between fiction and reality.