May. 19th, 2010

tam_albright: (Default)
My relationship with words is -- at best -- tempestous in nature. Too often, I find myself sick in love and envy with the work of others; with Sylvia Plath's fragile prose, or Mark Twain's parleying wit and cleverness, etc. My admiration is anguishing.

Words twist me, twine around me, knot me into a noose until I'm light headed and gasping with need. I'm dying in love of them. For them.

Yet, my grasp is tenuous. Rude grammatical understanding and basic vocabulary are the only things in my arsenal. Why can't I write like them?

In so far, my writing encounters more or less resemble the late night gropings of two horny teenagers in a back seat -- sweaty-palmed eagerness combined with ignorance and wadded waxpaper wrappers from the last drive-thru visit.

I reek of desperation and stale french fries. I stink of fear. The blinking cursor remains still and I question. It. Myself. The world.

A small voice in me poisons until my reasoning becomes subject to interrogation. "Do you write for love or money?" "For truth or vanity?"

When I don't answer right away, it grows louder. "Fraud." "Hack." "Worthless!"

The voice forms in conviction, in condemnation -- it resembles the slurred vodka-speech of my father. Worthless, it pronounces.

My verdict.

So I sit, watching the blinking cursor in the memory of alcoholic fumes and will it to move.

Profile

tam_albright: (Default)
tam_albright

April 2012

S M T W T F S
1234567
891011121314
15161718192021
22232425262728
2930     

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Sep. 19th, 2017 03:24 pm
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios