Literary Exercise # 21: Have To Blog

Literally, literar-il-y, every day. Jot down your thoughts for 15 minutes. Make a habit of it--what good may come!

It's a strange thing to me when I hear other writers say, you have to write every day. First, that assumes that you have something to write about, and second, that you will be able to express it. Now, while I believe in a boundless source of creativity, I do not believe we always connect with it. And though it is possible (at least in theory, at least some of the time) to connect with it, we are not always able to communicate it. So we try. And write. Every damn day. Every damn blog update. Every damn key-stroke. And what do we produce? Correct me if I'm wrong, but the human race, at this point in time, is more auto-biographical and self-reflective than at any other time in history. Sure we have more people--higher literacy rates--relatively speaking--and we have the technology--mac books and pc's (shall I say it? for those who prefer carpal tunnel to hands cramps). And we have the encouragement--feel good about yourself--post your clumsy love poems or your daily sound bites--or feel bad--about yourself or others--others usually feeling the heat of it--as if we should have no scruples in dousing them in petrol, striking, throwing a match in their direction. Add a dash of irony. It feels great. It really does.

Well, I didn't intend for this blog to be one of those daily irritations, I intended to give reasons for a shift in our thinking. So forgive me if I've been banging on the door too loudly. I'm leaving now, and you can take these arguments in at your own discretion, only, be aware that it's cruel to leave an orphan out in the cold for too long.

And a note (if you take time to read notes) on the arguments--they will be a series of thoughts, of questions really, so treat them systematically, if you prefer, or, if I may abuse a word and then repent of it, treat them existentially, as if there were no such thing as systems--or if we make them into anti-systems. If you prefer. I'll tie everything up, or attempt to (notice your prickling at a hint of arrogance), and then you'll really be able to fault me if I left a corner sticking out or if my bows look crumpled or miserable as shit (I can't seem to do it justice). But this part is really for you.

I wonder:

I wonder if it's worth writing at all if all you can write about is yourself, or how the world affects you. Or if you jumble metaphors together so you can have, in effect, a sort of verbal masturbation.

I wonder--if--if the above is the only kind of writing you do, if you really have something to say, anything of value to anybody else, anything that speaks to the human condition.

I wonder if, instead of say, 15 minutes of writing, we should spend those minutes carefully, by thinking, and only laying them down on the counter, one by one, when we're really sure we have enough change to pay for what we wanted, or rather, what the reader wanted, something that takes them outside of themselves.

I wonder why everybody feels the need to write about themselves, or the need to drive a story without plot (externally), but plot internally.

I wonder why, if everyone has all these profound thoughts on human occurrences, why they don't voice them in real life, and instead save them to these pages--to be archived in a computer system rather than a person's memory.

I wonder if we're so scared of story--so scared of a larger narrative--that we can only write from the I, can only write from our subjective experience. Or if it's just that it's easier.

And I wonder, and here, I am not being pejorative, if the vast amount of this work will never be publishable, if it's really worth the effort, for ourselves or for anyone else.

And,

Maybe:

Maybe it's because we haven't taken time to look around us--outside of our feelings of "around us," and read other authors that speak magnificently--to the lot of us, and secondly, subordinately, to themselves.

And maybe it's because we really are stories, all characters in our own novels, and there really is a driving force outside of us. But if it's only inside of us, that maybe we should consider revision.

Or maybe it's because, with the last point taken into consideration, these I's really do have a place in human experience, really do have a right to assembly, really do have a right to be taken seriously.

Or maybe it's because we have nothing left, no one to turn to but ourselves, that we lapse into unhealthy cycles--like the thinker who keeps thinking but never learns what it's like to love, or why it's important.

And,

Of Course:

Or Perhaps:

Of course, I am in this camp, and guilty of all charges leveled against me, and of course I have the same desire as everyone else to say my piece and expect some applause, or at least a silent moment of respect as I step away from the podium. And perhaps that isn't all that bad.

And of course there is room for more, room for stories that really do bring infinity to the finite, and relieve us from this natural world that tears and grinds away at us--our bodies and our souls. And of course that isn't bad. And no perhaps.

And of course, writing, no matter what the Egyptians say (and I actually can't remember what they say--was it Theuth--and the memory and wisdom of the people at stake), is a gift, and of course we should be prone to use, apt to rely on it, quick to defend its practice. And of course we would be right. Or perhaps we would be wrong.

And of course, this isn't meant as real knowledge, or at the least the kind of real that you can take home with you and reference whenever life's difficulties seem overwhelming and you need a solid stance to lean on--or practice. But perhaps it may be right. In its own way. After all, it's just 15 minutes, and I needed something to write about, something to say. Literally, literar-il-y, every day. Jot down your thoughts for 15 minutes. Make a habit of it--what good may come!