What can people write about? Or rather, what is worth writing about that makes some sense? One’s experience? One’s family? One’s ability to compose tall tales from an overly active imagination. Weave a fantasy that takes someone who reads it to somewhere else far from themselves? A bit about history or more likely the most acceptable version allowed by the officially sanctioned told tale that since it is so oft repeated that it becomes public knowledge a the strew set of facts. But the author’s sense of of all these things through the perception of their keyboard or pen. The characters that are fashioned from a fabric that is purposely torn in the course of retelling and then unexpectedly re-sewn into another kind of guise. That damnable blank piece of white bond that offers nothing yet promises a universe capable of everything. A catcher’s mitt for grabbing something speeding too fast to perceive until wrought in characters on that page. The most likely starting point being to capture a common emotion through unexpected circumstances that circumvent the reader’s most common expectations yet does not travel too far afield of them so as to be hopelessly enigmatic. Something so simple that to see it again becomes extraordinary. To hear those words pitched by lovely lips whose vowels and intimation bring new life to old sayings. Though words may be utterly silent a voice imaginary or real is needed to convey it in pantomime to the ears of one’s inner understanding. Your voice. Another most memorable voice of someone loved or someone else equally detested. Something sung with an accent to invoke passion or finding a regular meter that keeps one in step with the pacing of the tale. The satisfaction of the scribe coming in some form of verification that their is an audience that in some measure truly understands the import of their deliberations. Someone gets it!
But there is an equal amount of apprehension that these same hieroglyphs will confuse or perhaps ignite sentiments that are merely counterproductive. The pendulum is likely to swing both ways in a manner that suggests that one is not in command of the sentiments of their own era. A fickle beast that is tamed and trained by the collective efforts of battalions of social moderators who act as interlocutors on behalf of an otherwise occupied public who have no time nor the inclination to form their own viewpoints out of the illusion of consensus that like any other commodity they expect will be manufactured for them and put in easy reach on a daily basis. The holy grail of author’s best seller’s lists with their exclusivity which acts as both a benefit and a curse. Defining for the otherwise clueless what has worth and what is merely uninformed babble not worthy of a moment’s time. The idea of criticality based upon some standard that of itself is mutually nebulous as it can change with something as eternally trivial as the latest shift in fashion based aesthetics for a given season of the year. Does one laud or criticize? Or does one dare to even comment. For there is the danger that the would be chronicler’s paradise of thoughts rest too far outside the desired pathways of thinking. Right and wrong. Fact and heresy? Who is to say that one is not an inadvertent clown too far from center stage to be taken seriously or worse yet a dilettante. The words of a lifetime may accumulate over the years but most will never be read by more than a few friends and a couple accidental admirer’s. The sum total of all this unappreciated effort demotes the author to a simple journal writer marking the shift over time of their own mental musings.
How then to proceed? Is this even an issue to those who have caught the bug and find it an obsession to daily construct some form of ongoing genetic chain of ongoing thoughts and observations along the lines of an eccentric personalized structure? Does this encompass those who though themselves turn out to be voracious readers but are so overstuffed by this diet that they must vomit out their own version of same in an antithetical manner in order to keep some sort of internally perceived moral balance to their notion of the larger phantom discussion? And of course their is that other sense of being an unconscious conduit that by the simple process of detailing ones thoughts unvarnished by editorial interference there is a purer sense of vérité. The act of same even without any public recognition places the instrument in closer proximity with the inference of the divine. For after all, is the single ant within the colony of millions to be considered an architect of the anthill or an unknowing slave to the happenstance of its creation? To set down one word and decide with great meditation, or not, the proper order and juxtaposition and possible reappearance within the same batch of same is noted. One lives or dies by that single word that to one’s horror they much later was out of place to what they recall was their original intent. That is the genius of it or alternately the unforgivable flaw. What personal conclusions one comes to about all this remains solely one’s own.