My Tree, a writing structure

…a writing structure for the writing process.

if my collective writing were a tree…..

This is how I conceptualise the structure of my collective writings on Medium, a structure to contain as well as provide for growing out of, a structure for the ongoing writing process rather any penultimate piece.

A conceptual and oftentimes visual ‘structure’ is critical to my writing process. In the admittedly very chaotic if creative universe of my thoughts which may be ordered in infinite ways into language to be shared, the lashings and restraints of the ‘structure’ form a magnetic memory map of sorts, to parse out sense and order and a linear telling of a story.

An idea or a “thread of inquiry” may extend in any direction, traversing along one and/or piercing through multiple posts. To traverse you read, to pierce you click through a link (like so, the first time I mentioned my “tree”) and perhaps pierce another or return to continue along the original post.

At the early stages, most of these posts and threads may be nearly unreadable — dense, verbose, flailing, besides the point. For the most part, these posts and threads are intentionally not meant to read like a pat article, essay, a finished container of thought or monologue. An ultimate ‘draft №4’ quality piece of writing might develop much later, glazing off phrases and ideas and the kernel of form from many prior posts and threads and refitting into a polished wood sculpture.

As I refine ideas or trim words or develop a theme, I may grow more written layers and either obfuscate the original drafts through exterior rings and edits, or leave bare a dead stump or a raw scar of the expression that once was. I will trim and hack at my leisure, and silly leaves, or tired words, may be picked or fall of their own accord or perhaps at the stirring of a wind of change.

My kind of strong tree has a deep and elaborate root system, with amorphous or as yet unoxygenated compounds eddying below the visible surface. Occasionally I may flex a root to protrude, to examine or sanitise with sunlight. Often they remain buried however your imagination may lurk and dig.

My tree blooms in all the colours of the rainbow and may sprout or merge branches across disciplines, faiths, species, and vast or microscopic distance. Intersections, contradictions, infections, nonsensical interjections, whimsy, repetitions? Do or do not fret, such is this one beautiful life. My tree wishes to emit light or at least reflect that of all the stars. (or cast shadow puppet stories, and dance with the sun)

the eventual tree I want to see like Tacita Dean’s Beauty (SF MOMA), Tacita Dean’s Majesty (Tate Modern), as complicated, impenetrable, evocative, present.

My tree is as it is in any moment of time and it is impossible for you to see my whole tree. Remember you read me from a particular vantage point at a certain time of day or night, and there is the backside of my tree whose shape and colour and texture you may assume yet will never know. Your reading lights are tinted and your climbing shoes are a cushy simulation.

Onwards, upwards and round about let’s go!