I’ve been collecting words of all kinds for a long time; quotes, passages, articles, stories, introspective thoughts and insightful gems that I just can’t leave behind.
They run the spectrum of the writer’s mind, the human condition and the creative process. They explore novel artefacts, indulge dark humour and linger in philosophical thoughts. They brazenly peek under the skirt of contemporary culture. Just words and things that catch my mind each day.
Things that make me think, feel alive, intrigued and connected to the world around me. They have been living here; a central space for me to leave and find them, a place to be seen and discovered by others like me…
But collecting words isn’t writing them.
The words themselves have never left me; they are everywhere in my life. They dance through my mind late at night. They burn my eyes in pixellated form each day. They quiver uncertainly at the tip of my pen when I make notes and lists.
They find me in the strangest places; they shout at me from billboards, they peek at me from nooks and crannies, they decorate my life in a way a passerby may not notice or, perhaps, identify as purely functional:
But I read them as signs. I see hidden meaning in their appearance before me, I find wormholes into subjects and topics and things I would otherwise never have discovered. I find books and ideas and curiosities and solace.
The really good ones like to repeat on me —much like the mainstream iconology of pineapples, pink flamingoes and such fascinations— until I’m wondering if its some new buzz word or am I’m supposed to get the thing tattooed on me? It’s an ever-present world of pure, word-laden insanity, and only a writer knows the feeling.
The past few years have been filled with stops and go-go-go’s. Life has been loaded with direction, change, movement and wildly upward, forward motions flinging me through the air. And moments of beautiful, always in hindsight, free-falling. But less so, a plateau for any sensible writing agenda or creative flow.
I know, the plateau doesn’t exist.
I know, there is no perfect time to write.
I know, I need to find my own process.
I know, I need to start somewhere.
So here is my medium for the message.
This is my journey back to the word.
It won’t be the dictionary definition of perfection, but it will wordy, real, wild in direction, and hopefully, it will be wonderful.