Wednesday, August 17, 2011
A Pile of Words
"There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed." ~Ernest Hemingway
I find myself sitting amidst a pile of words, wanting to string them together as if they were beads on a thread. Can I do that? Can I randomly choose one after another paying no attention to articles of speech or context? I believe it would sound something like the Jabberwocky or worse.
It is not my intent to create nonsense or indiscriminate writing. I have a focus; it's simply slow in coming.
I play in my pile of words as if they were freshly fallen leaves from a tree. I dig deep, I throw them in the air, I thrash about, I cough up the dust. When I close my eyes I still see them floating in front of me. Words, words, words, like Shakespeare exclaimed. Meaning nothing. Meaning everything. My lump of clay. Sitting expectantly. Waiting for me to do with them what I will.