I write

I write often: sometimes slowly, considering the words and their structure; sometimes quickly with passion and sometimes slowly with passion.  Just seeing it on the page in black and white often quells a raging within me.  Sometimes, not so much.

At times I will let the writing chill for a bit, marinating in the flow of life about me for days or weeks, taking on essence and reason.  But sometimes my passion spills onto the page like excess oil spills from a vial too quickly filled.  Then there are times the writing goes into a vault for a later date or perhaps for reading or sometimes just to sit so that one day I can remember what nonsense I came through whether of my own or another’s making. 

Sometimes I see truth that I feel is beneficial and should be seen whether or not it is accepted.  It may be a page full of open truth or one sentence that draws from the page a valid point of use but doesn’t really stand alone. 

Often my writing comes of my private time and the insights I feel I’ve gained.  It is not that I think my revelations are greater or wiser than others.  I write not to convince the reader of my great skill or reasoning; I just write because it is in me to do so.

I enjoy writing stories and, as I see it, there are two types of stories that generally come from my hand: the reminiscence of joy or pain, and allegory drawn from life.  Sometimes I hide the truth I seek or the truth I’ve found in simple stories from an event or word that caught my mind; sometimes it is a story that is so badly clad that no one would doubt the persons and times mentioned there and many would rightly take offense.  But sometimes even that is a story that holds a deep truth or feeling that I deem worth the risk, if there is indeed a risk, of misunderstanding or offense.

Recently I flew to the page and wrote in passion:

 “Of course, I am a stupid minded, dull witted excuse for a writer or critic and there are so many better, more astute voices to speak on the matter.  I don't write because I am good; I don't write because I will be published; I write because I just do.  To some that is utter folly.  To me it is part of living.” 

I can still feel my indignation at the redress that brought it on, though after the interval, it seems a petty reaction.  But there is much truth lying in that statement.  I would rather write something that no one reads for good reason, than to quell the fire inside me and kill the word before it has life.  I understand that by putting it out there, I choose an audience and must accept their right to judge.  Still, I do not have to accept their judgment as truth.

What of misunderstanding, then?  My belief is that more misunderstanding comes of people brooding malice by hiding their words inside than by them throwing it out for a reaction.  At least, when it is on the table, there may be an argument that enlightens both minds when one or the other gets his or her fill of brooding.  There may be a chance for a person to recognize the folly in statements made or actions committed and some resolution perhaps may come.  

Yet, not all things may be mended.  I have a refrigerator that has served me for over 20 years.  I want it replaced; it is not something I owe allegiance and right to.  Yet a friend that has known me for much less than that deserves a chance to fix what is breaking down or to have their offensive behavior dismissed into the realm of ‘that which is common to man.’  We must decide what to value in life and then accept the choice.

There is a line from the Count of MonteCristo that comes to mind.  I think it is one of Dumas’ finer moments: “Don’t commit the crime for which you now serve the sentence.”  Often we are wronged by life, by friends, by ourselves.  We are misunderstood; we are unjustly made prisoners of pain we did not earn.  We are isolated by the will of another to protect an image or position.  

We are not required to put up with offenses constantly repeated; we are just asked to forgive since we too require forgiveness.  There are punishments enough built into life and we need not bring more down upon us than will come naturally.  When a car slings mud on my clothes, it is not unkind to get out of the way next time.  And while it may be boring or useless to tell of it after the fact, it is no crime to share the frustration or lesson of it in writing.  It may even help in some small way.

I don't write because I am good; I don't write because I will be published; I write because I just do.