Monday, September 08, 2008

Matters through me

Alright, so: It's time for one of those celebration posts again. I've now been blogging, offically on Blogger, for an astounding two years - !!! - resulting in a similarly overwhelming number of pages, poems, pleasant (and some more patronizing) comments; and, what can I say; after the obligatory congrats, champagne, and balloon snatching; well, it's been interesting. Through and through - it's been wonderful and challenging and rewarding, and sometimes exhausting. Hopefully I've managed to contribute with a decent number of informative articles as well (including last year's anniversary ramble), and some interesting stuff, in addition to a few neat poems; at least, that's what I'm hoping for. That's why I've been writing all these words, all this time. And I love being a Blogger (on Blogger), in spite of not all my posts being as eloquent and well-structured as they'd ought to be, and the numerous cases of excessive fangirling, where I (perhaps?) ought to have restrained myself. But the main objective of my bloggery business, and that of others', is to open up and bring about and present oneself to the world - and to promote my writings along with it. That is; to humbly display various contents of my imagination, as a result of those multiple, alluring sources of inspiration - that constantly seem to be brought to my attention - and then to publish my thoughts as they strike me; both inspirational and imaginative matters; and just bring all my ideas out there, into the vast space that is nerds, fans, internet surfers and others alike. Thereby, to establish a connection between me and them, them and us; to read and be read. That's the mission, so to speak, and without sounding self-asserting. Well, trying not to overdo it, as it were. For, it's not about being a wannabe-Shakespeare or holding the key to intellectuality itself; it all comes down to words; and loving them more than anything, more than love, more than life. To devote oneself to the task of communicating on a written level - and render out of it a product that is meaningful, even remarkable, at least worth gazing twice upon. Not because it's the easiest method, or a fun something to do, but because you have to. Because it's necessary to your living; and because your living, thereby, gains ever the more meaning.

Now, how could anything be so important, you might inquire, and do allow me to elaborate a bit: Thing is, at some points in my life, during my weekly routines, whenever, however, I need to clarify facts more to myself than to anybody else, but in order to do that I need to put them into writing that may be viewed, and read, by others. So I take my thoughts, my suppositions, my fancies - and I contemplate them; I process them, one by one, by using them as topic for a text in which they are both main subject and main catalyst. Whatever triggers me, tickle my senses, I tend to employ it for a writing sesssion. When you reagrd the emotion in its written form, you seem to discover it anew, and the same goes for questions, replies, depictions, stories; you shape them, you observe them, they yield to your recognition. I don't know if I make myself clear, here, but this is what it's like, and I do suppose it's got something to do with the essential purpose, the primary condition of being a writer in the first place. Maybe we need to find the public framing for our messages, for us to understand them ourselves; maybe we need to be able to utter what we wish in a fashion that is appropriate for publishing, before we actually get to say what we wanted, or figure out any of it at all. You polish the words, in a sense, and you get a more precise meaning out of them. Thus, no matter how much structure one believes one is lacking, there's always an intent - in one's mind - of creating a distinct and comprehensible statement, or improving what one's created until it appears to be so. Most of all, as I mentioned, to oneself. The minds of writers seem to work on a manically literary level, where everything is re-thought, re-formulated, re-envisioned, before one feels content. Hence, many won't be that articulate, or behold much general precision, even on paper. We spoke of this today, at the Uni, how most literary scholars have a habit of always providing three synonymous phrases for the same concept; rethinking their answers thrice before concluding; never being able to decide what is right, absolute. It can be somewhat annoying, lest to say a pain in the neck, both to us and to our listeners, yet it's also a matter of perfection; wanting the words to function, symbolize, generate a dynamic, be explicit without a fuss. Which is hard; trust me. I know all about this, it's what I practise. No expert, by far, but slowly learning. Humble. It's bound to take a lifetime, I don't mind; although I have to admit it causes some frustration. You want to express that single, definite truth, at every single instance; and you put down the sentences, one after the other, for the single purpose that they shall form a sensible, effective paragraph that hits the note straightaway, still managing to reflect the honest opinion beheld by you and you only. Proving to be original, and at the same time organized. Such is the magic - and the inhumane demand - proposed by devoting oneself to this activity; the art, and atrocity, of living off one's pen; for you have to make use of both your wit, your heart and your logic, and combine these, into a reader-friendly unity. Whether one is an amateur, an author, a salesman or a blogsite owner; you commit yourself to the same relentless, and often exhausting effort. To speak one's mind freely, yet also poetically, and with so much deliberate distinctness one may be understood by others. An audience one may or may not know. In case of, it's a beautiful mixture - some familiar faces, some new, intriguing friends, and some you never see. Nevertheless, as a writer - there, or anywhere else - you focus on expressivity; to make your point and become its meaning, whilst being the speaker of it. It helps, when you wish to get matters off your chest; when somethings buggering you and you can actually free yourself of it, by letting your soul scribble it out. Then again; sometimes, findinng yourself unable to express what's tormenting you, properly, just increases the difficulty of the whole affair, and you get even more depressed. For hence are we drawn, on the formulation scale, between the prospect of immense success and the possibility of utmost failure. When the words behave, when they serve us rightfully and our brains resolve the puzzle that is sorting them together; rendering a complete, concrete message; it is - nothing less than - perfect. And then, when they fail, everything's lost. The balance between writing and writer's block is minimal, and the consequences of the latter can be devastating. But for people whose greatest love in life is spening life on being writers, you don't really have a choice. You have to risk it. You have to make sense; of it, through it, with it. Life - as well as its vocabulary.

1 comment:

Randi said...

Og jeg er glad du blogger på din poetiske, humoristiske, av og til saklige men aldri kjedelige måte. Og du gir meg masse innsikt i din litterære verden, det du liker og det du misliker folder seg ut i ord du velger som aldri gjør det du skriver oppramsende - ordene synes aldri tilfeldig valgt, selv om poetens tekster kan bli lange med mange ord til ettertanke.