The Lifetime Itch

        How often have we all sat, staring at this screen, with the little curser line blinking at us, willing us to write something, anything. Well, it seems I'm having one of those moments. So when all else fails, write what seems simple and obvious, like about the blinking line that keeps teasing me with it's constant blink, blink, blink.

       This is the classic case of writing avoidance, block, procrastination whatever keeps the page white, instead of filled with a pattern of black letters. If I can justify time here, then I can avoid the space I should be typing into. I've hit the crossroads on one of my endeavors and it's decision time. Deletion and devastation, or revision and resurrection.

       Words can really add up to a whole lot of nadda, or a spectacular abundance that keeps a person enthralled. I love a good book. I feel pretty safe about making the assumption that most people enjoy a good book, but not all readers enjoy writing. Although it would seem the two go hand in hand, I know several people who enjoy devouring a fine book on a Saturday afternoon, but wouldn't dream of keeping a journal, or even sending a friend in a letter. I suppose, either you have the writing itch or you don't.

        I for one, have a writing itch that never seems to be scratched.

       It's much deeper then just keeping my many journals alive. It's about scratching out the occasional eclectic stream of conscience sentences, which Plittle over at  Aurora Walking Vacation had suggested as poetry, although I've never considered, nor labeled myself a poet. Now, I'll give Paul credit, against my denial of being poet material, he has been able to substantiate his claims with some pretty undeniable material. If I remember correctly, he pulled out the dictionary with me, and that hurt. Hard to argue with the grand daddy of word meaning, the all powerful master of definition, the dictionary. <By the way, mighty crafty move on your part Paul> I'm just not ready to toss a label of poet next to my name. Too many expectations, guidelines, purpose, labels associated withpoetry,and if I may be blunt, some <those usually who claim to be of the serious nature> poets can be a biased, judgmental, pretentious society, of which I'm perfectly happy looking in the window at the cliche.

      It's also about this itch that picks on me constantly. The itch that is stories. To tell a tale, to craft a story, to write a scene, these are the little visions that pick at me until I write them down. Sometimes it comes at me in the form of a title. Poof, like reading the title of a book, then the story follows around it. Sometimes it's a person, and I write a whole story around that specific character. Occasionally I'll be talking to someone and something about the way they say a sentence brings forth a quick essay. And so on and on and on and on.........never ending mind bombardment.

       This is the stuff daydreamers are made of. Off to lala land, mind floating in the clouds, enticing new and interesting versions of everyday life. This is the life of a writer. I think though, it's important to distinguish the difference between a writer and an author, just as I distinguish in my own world, the difference between a poet and a simple person who writes slightly quirky meandering of her mind. I'm not an author, nor am I a poet, but I could be if I keep writing, daydreaming and tenaciously step up to the next level............the labels are attainable.

       Enough procrastination here, I think I've wrote enough, to knock down the block I was facing just over there...........

When all else fails, borrow from another

I am no philosopher, but if continuity is anything,
It is in this, bright pictures in the dark of the mind,
Each an echo of something, but still unique.
Claude Monet