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Abstract

at have little to do with any of it. None of it: and the needle ticks away like it wants to know something.</p><p id="0c02">So beautiful, I’m told: inspired, this drivel that says nothing at all of my mind storms.</p><h2 id="6964">Do you ever have that problem?</h2><p id="cfc8">Anybody? Crickets, maybe…</p><p id="d2bd">But I suspect I’m not the only one — we all seem to ramble on about writing more (and writing better, and faster and still more) — but does the better of the best of any of you, like me, ever succumb to that stack of all the unwritten things?</p><p id="b221">Crickets, maybe… all the seasons passing nonetheless?</p><p id="db9c">Do the words — though right there all around, boundless — ever elude you entirely and go off to God-knows-where saying God-knows-what, and to whom?</p><p id="00df">Do you then write the mind out as if by some ultraconscious compulsion (because it feels true):</p><p id="b553" type="7">God knows too if this is all — if we are, in fact — God… but the people need hope, so perhaps it’s best if He never tells us.</p><h2 id="2842">Why hath God forsaken us (writers)?</h2><p id="4066">I think that’s what I’m asking — lost in my own irony, my nutshell. I’m in here somewhere — and it’s fine: if there is even one soul among you to give it a crack, I’ll be content (because that’s company, after all, and God knows I need it). I trust you’re just as mad — the more, the merrier.</p><figure id="a834"><img sr

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c="https://cdn-images-1.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:800/1*0R54yvN_inrBkZj2oIJqCw.jpeg"><figcaption>Thanks to: The Internet Archive, Flickr</figcaption></figure><p id="9720">That’s the spirit, we should tell ourselves (us two — or more: we’ll count later). There is still time to write the lion’s share, I suspect, and the rest will keep necessary track of all the unnecessary things — all the seasons, passing nonetheless — and it’s fine… we won’t ask to see any of it, nor will we care.</p><h2 id="3277">What we don’t write can’t hurt us.</h2><p id="bd3c">And what we <i>do</i> write… uh, well…. in my case — if there is any truth to the little league, toxic male maxim passed down from generation to generation:</p><p id="e14b"><i>“Chicks dig scars.”</i></p><p id="589d">(God, I truly hope so.) Such is writing.</p><figure id="5a99"><img src="https://cdn-images-1.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:800/1*9bD_8vhQ5g7C_9bW0-7SPA.jpeg"><figcaption>Thanks to: <a href="https://unsplash.com/photos/bIwFwR2fSsA?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Carolyn V</a>, <a href="https://unsplash.com/search/photos/word-cloud?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Unsplash</a></figcaption></figure><figure id="a814"><img src="https://cdn-images-1.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:800/1*eLY7z6NuxjwFyI1T-dwXcQ.png"><figcaption>Helping each other write better.</figcaption></figure></article></body>

From the Mind of a Rambler

Such is Writing: Volume 2

Hello again, fellow travellers! Contemporary wordsmiths and paper scratchers.

I Hope All is Sure and Well…

But I have a problem, and it’s going to sound silly (I need to warn you)… There is too much to write about — too many ideas ebbing and flowing (coming, going), like city lights — up and down — just after the rain falls.

So many!

I write in short synaptic pops and snaps, however, that have little to do with any of it. None of it: and the needle ticks away like it wants to know something.

So beautiful, I’m told: inspired, this drivel that says nothing at all of my mind storms.

Do you ever have that problem?

Anybody? Crickets, maybe…

But I suspect I’m not the only one — we all seem to ramble on about writing more (and writing better, and faster and still more) — but does the better of the best of any of you, like me, ever succumb to that stack of all the unwritten things?

Crickets, maybe… all the seasons passing nonetheless?

Do the words — though right there all around, boundless — ever elude you entirely and go off to God-knows-where saying God-knows-what, and to whom?

Do you then write the mind out as if by some ultraconscious compulsion (because it feels true):

God knows too if this is all — if we are, in fact — God… but the people need hope, so perhaps it’s best if He never tells us.

Why hath God forsaken us (writers)?

I think that’s what I’m asking — lost in my own irony, my nutshell. I’m in here somewhere — and it’s fine: if there is even one soul among you to give it a crack, I’ll be content (because that’s company, after all, and God knows I need it). I trust you’re just as mad — the more, the merrier.

That’s the spirit, we should tell ourselves (us two — or more: we’ll count later). There is still time to write the lion’s share, I suspect, and the rest will keep necessary track of all the unnecessary things — all the seasons, passing nonetheless — and it’s fine… we won’t ask to see any of it, nor will we care.

What we don’t write can’t hurt us.

And what we do write… uh, well…. in my case — if there is any truth to the little league, toxic male maxim passed down from generation to generation:

“Chicks dig scars.”

(God, I truly hope so.) Such is writing.