Everywhere I search, they all say, "Write every day." Write about the first person/place/abstract/thought/idea/animal/object/word that burrows into your system. Actually, don't wait for it to burrow; as soon as it scratches the surface, you better be on it. I laughed (out loud) to myself in agreement when I read what an author said about self-criticism. She said you know you're a writer when you think what you've just written is the best ever. And then you mature and progress and find your style, and all that "excellent" work you produced before seems like worthless. I wrote in high school and thought that though there was always room for improvement, I was an "okay" writer. All that was scum. Poetry? Crapola. When I read my junior high poetry I want to laugh (out loud). To think I thought it was good enough and all my friends wanted a copy. I know in years to come, everything I create at this age will reek of cliche. Because it is. I can never be too good. I can always do better.
OH —
And read. Read, read, read. I want so badly to say that it would be hard for me to do that... every day. When do I have the time? In truth, I have more than most. Sometimes I feel like I'll run out of thoughts if I record them every day, but that's been proven otherwise. I just hope I will challenge myself enough to be at a point where I could write forever and never sleep...
Another one of the "greats" also said he was thankful to have never gone to school. He believed doing so would have robbed him of his originality. While I want to continually educate myself, I'm partial to his point. I want to create what I know; what I believe in; what I trust. I don't want his or hers or your ideas deposited into my mind or woven into my style. I feel like school will tweak my talent, and in truth I don't mind being a little rough around the edges. I feel similiar in that education could soften me, and I want to be raw. What did that guy ever know though? I mean, come on...basically he was uneducated. But I just feel like, ugh. The dude has a point.
Ray Bradbury said, "You must stay drunk on writing, so reality will not destroy you." I'm scared to my bones because school is reality. It's a place to learn and re-create or truly discover yourself for the first time. But it's also a place for structure, curriculum, criteria, requirements, and grading scales. How can you determine whose soul deserves an A- and whose gets the B+? What's the difference? Of course I'm referring to my major; a business or geosciences student couldn't argue the same point. In writing, when one is spilling one's GUTS, critique you may, but a letter grade screams judgment. No one should be docked points based on their character. Those words are them. Who are you to determine if they pass or fail, Mister-I-have-a-PhD?
In the past, my creative self has bugged the crap out of me in the most inopportune moments. Asleep, then awake, and too tired to turn on the light. I fumbled for anything composed of paper or its particles — in this instance, it was an envelope. I searched for a writing utensil in the dark, half conscious, and found a pen. I wrote a poem. I knew I could not — should not — return to sleep until the thought was on paper and out of my head. The next day I read it, and tossed it on the floor with the rest of my crap, not giving it a chance, not giving it proper acknowledgement. A few days later, I picked it up again and I fell in love. I wondered how I did it, how I woke from my DEATH in the middle of the night and produced those words? How did my brain chisel off the shell and reveal the most wholesome prose to dictate the status of my life at the time? The piece needed absolutely no editing. The punctuation perfect, the timing flawless, the words magical.
I have pulled over on the side of the highway just to jot down my thoughts because I know I need to release them and have the evidence to tweak and master and perfect at a more appropriate time. As long as the pulp of the piece is on paper or somewhere within my sight, I know I'll be able to dress it up when I get home. Writing controls me and consumes me and often times I hate to love it. Without it, I'm Taylor. Dormant. But when it's active, I'm Taylor, ignited. It's also like a second-conscience. I've learned to quit attempting to win against it, or ignore it. Sometimes I have a "here we go again" attitude towards it. Like really? You're gonna strike while I'm in the middle of this movie? At church, huh? Alright, hand me that broken pencil. Hang on, just let me dig in my purse and see what I can find to get this out of me. Back of my checkbook? I'm not even mad. It's my socially acceptable form of schizophrenia.
My own opinion of my writing is like a sugar cookie, "just okay" alone. But then afterward, I think it's rather plain and kinda dry so I add vanilla frosting and it becomes something more. My cookie desperately needs a splash of color, so you guessed it: in goes the food coloring. I'm really enjoying it now, and I believe adding sprinkles will be just the perfect touch. Not too many, because over-sprinkling can be quite overwhelming and leave a bad taste in my mouth. When I find the perfect combination, my end result will always prevail.
If there's no pen or keyboard in my sight when these thoughts are suffocating me, they are no more. Lost. Gone forever; irreplaceable. They can never be re-created or revisited at a "later date". I can't tell myself I'll just do it when I have time. If I tried, it would never be near the product I would have been capable of in that moment when the planets of my creativity collided.
That's how I know.
I can sit down and open a vein and lose myself in my own words.
I am simply obeying my destiny like a mother's instruction.
This is why I am alive.
It'll help 