I am a writer, not a fancy one and not a formal one. But, that is how I deal with the world around me, I write. I was just reading a blog on Jonathan Carroll about a friend of his who is a painter and found a box of their items which was 20 years old. They were afraid to open it to find out how ‘bad’ they really were back then. But, when they opened the box… At this point you expect me to tell you how pleasantly surprised they were by their brilliance. Instead they were disappointed by the work and where they were in their life.
For me, when I go back and read old journals, whether a year ago or 30 years ago, I am more amazed about what I wrote. Who is/was that person who wrote such poignant items with so much simplicity that even after all these years the words echo through my soul and resonate through me. Sometimes it is the twanging of the memory and other times it is just the beauty of the world.
But, strangely whenever I try to write, I can’t create the form or the base of the story to build upon. It is a fleeting moment, feeling and expression that lands on the paper. But, I can’t get the characters to whisper to me the rest of the story.
