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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.
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.
