A Little Something Nothing (2012)

So much time spent here thinking, pondering without a person to vocalize these sometimes mundane, sometimes profound thoughts. I’d like to laugh about the absurd then cry about the misery. Engage in the beautiful simplicities then geek on the complexities. I’ve given up on speaking at this hour at night, and with this reality, a blow to my writing emerges. If there is no one to utter nonsense to, then there is no one to share whatever droll or art that springs forth from this very isolated mind. I can’t share nor give nor embrace. There is no connection. Just a cup of tea I forgot about. I feel hindered by this lack of stimulation. Alas, I do know the path of inspiration. I know what I find beautiful, what I hold dear, yet it not all depends on me. My inspiration is what I fear for words written in vain are a disappointment over time. This is the crux of a certain matter, but it will eventually dissolve, leaving me expressing the stupendous awe once again.

Now all I have to write about is writing: the time honored, classic, fall-back prompt. What I was working on about 2 years ago was lost. Upon trying to rewrite one of the projects, I realized it will never be how I originally imagined. My grammar, my slang, my life has drastically changed since then. I should give it an earnest try. When I think about some of the dialogue and plot, I almost want to tear up because I am proud of the creation of such a tale. I dug deep, researched, and imagined to assemble something simply awesome through writing. It was art in praise of art, in praise of all the magnificent literature and music I have enjoyed. It was art embracing folklore and legend. It was how and what I wanted to write. I somehow tapped into a potent center of imagination and creativity in those days where I’d go to work and constantly think about the whole piece. I couldn’t wait to get home, map it out, create. It was The Book, my fairy tale in my acquired styling. I wanted to write that book. Then particular annoyances sprung up in that thing outside of written words, that thing, life, ya know. Those things were passing. I may have lost some people, but I care more about the books I lost. Those forty pages were the beginning to me. I could go forever about how, as I writer, I believed I found a good niche and dynamic for myself. I could be a nerd right now, but as a reader, I’d be alienating you or boring you or annoying you. I could produce word upon word about trying not to overuse “really” and “just.” I could opine how I like dialogue driven work. I could point out that I’m not scared to use the word “opine” out of thin air and use incomplete sentences with slang to prove a point and to be myself. However, I must acknowledge: this is what makes me glow inside.

That book was only the start. It was the beginning of my life’s work. This, what I type now, is practice. This is nothing. These little symbols clicking across the screen are keeping the talent alive as it recovers, the life support. The book, Under My Voodoo, was the first in a line of my creations. In a way, it was practice as well, for it would only move some. I sincerely want to write a novel so astounding yet simple enough for many to comprehend. I want to move all by these words. Fill them up with the glow that words give me. Sprinkle upon them something so captivating and beautiful that it betters them. Give the people so caught up in the hustle and noise of life a moment of peace in words. Just a really, really sweet moment.