Saturday Night Dance Party: It's Not Enough, Babe
We're easing out of last night's Marvin Gaye jam with the master of the morning after song. He may not have Marvin's Saturday night moves, but he definitely has the Sunday morning wardrobe down.
Day 1: Still tired from the move
there was a time when the words came a lot more easily. they flowed from my brain and out of my fingers. daytime, nighttime. the middle of the night. 4am. fueled by a nauseating mix of passion and being 20 and diet soda and candy. a lot of candy. the editor was quieter, the time more invisible. i had all the time in the world to share secrets, feelings i didn't know how to articulate, thoughts i was sure would change the world. i was not actually as creative as i hoped. i was a hack, exploring the limits of my willingness to stay up all night for no real reward. i ignored structure and called it "free writing". i ignored grammar and common sense and punctuation and the concept of writing to the reader.
if i were to go back to the start, to do it over, to revise the plan, i would kick myself out of the chair and into a creative writing class. i would put myself in the midst of better writers and let my ego take the beating. i would stop with the writing as means to communicate feelings and instead learn how to speak, a talent that eludes me still. that option is closed, though. and looking back only brings the shame of having wasted so much time on something i swear that i love to do. the only option is to go forward. to ask if i really do love to write. to realize that i ask too many rhetorical questions and don't put enough of myself out there and rely on lots and lots of commas. to take a class that tears apart any writing i do. to study plot and structure and new words and grammar and use uppercase letters. to learn all over again. to go back to the start.Comments [0]
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