As a class assignment I was asked why I liked writing, and what my process was for the things I've written so far. The truth is... I hate writing. Writing, for me, is a series of mistranslations of images that get stuck in my head. If I had any control over the output of what those images are, then I might enjoy it a little teeny tiny bit more. As it is, I don't really have much of a say in what the little people in my head want to talk about. I'm told that my writing is pretty good, and that I'm a great writer, etc. I still hold fast to the notion that I'm not a writer. Writers put hundreds of hours into plotlines, outlines, editing, rewriting, etc. No, I'm not a writer, I am simply the scribe for the writers that exist in my head, and force me to put words on the paper/in the computer. I, honestly, would rather attempt to draw the images in my head, and let the viewer make of it what they will. Instead, I am forced to use the written word, a language all its own. And it is its own language, in no other type of communication will you find that there is a miscommunication directly from what is said to what is thought. In no other form is it possible to see a word, and think that it is the other word that is spelled the same. In no other form will no two people see the same thing when reading what is written.
Now, where was I... Oh, right. My process. If you really want to say that I have a process, it would be to attempt to go to sleep, and be disturbed at 2 a.m. with an image that demands to be put down; and when I go to write that single solitary image, I am bombarded with a series of images that turns 2 a.m. into 4 a.m. and a couple of paragraphs into 12 - 15 pages. My process is in avoiding even the thought of writing until the little people start shouting to the point where I am helpless. One of my exes coined a term that I enjoy using for my writing style. The term is "word vomit". Word vomit is when you sit down and go bleh and there are a bunch of words on the paper that make sense when put together in that order. My "style" is a bit different, simply because I can't just sit down and write, I have to have that moment of inspiration. I think off and on about what I would do with a story that I'm reading, if I were the writer, and I think that that influences how the words come out on the pages. I don't even edit half the time, because I'm autocorrecting my sentences and phrases as I write. So, when I start writing, I have one image that the little people came up with, but when I finish, they've changed it to look totally different (quite often, it is almost the exact opposite of what they initially told me we were writing).
One example that the little people gave me at the beginning of this blog, and nearly did away with, is this: There was one night, probably three or four years ago (maybe more), I was outside in my parents back yard. It was night, and I was listening to music and doing some swordplay exercises. In need of a breather, I stopped and looked up. I saw the moon and that it was full. Immediately, phrases and words started pouring through my head, but I tried to ignore them. I wasn't really out there to write, although I did have a notebook out there with me. What I really wanted to do, was get some exercise in, and do some drawing, but alas, it was to no avail. The little people demanded that I write, and I wrote a poem.
Bright Night
The incandescent night is calling,
Its call is only heard by thos falling,
With a dog bark and a cat's song,
You know that it won't be long.
To hear the call seems absurd,
When it is as silent as the flight of a bird,
You feel it wimpering,
As it is only simpering.
The blood's pulsation,
Is its own elation,
To find the release,
You must give in to the beast.
This is your night,
Don't give up the fight,
T;he night iscalling,
'Cause you are falling.
The blood's elation,
Is you pulsation,
As the fallen gather,
You are hot with lather.
The fear is gripping,
The blood is dripping,
You can feel the bite,
You've forgotten to fight.
The beast is calling,
Still you are falling,
This is your night,
You can still fight.
With rips and tears,
Your screams mingle with theirs,
You have begun your fight,
To do what is right.
Turn in flight,
Take back the fight,
Go back to the start,
And tear out their heart.
The incandescent night is calling,
For those who are falling,
you have lost your sight,
But won the fight.
Charles B. Rabun
The above poem is the result of that night, along with about three other poems, and as of yet. It is still unedited. I don't have much of a tendency to go back and edit my work. When I do try to do so, I tend to end up with a completely different thing. As I said before, if I could control the output, I Might not have as much of an issue with writing. But since that is not the case, I'll stick with hating it, and enjoying many of the results anyway.
