On Writing

I was so excited to find that I had the ability to write drafts and save them for later publishing. Now I realize that I don't write that way. I spew out my thoughts and emotions in a flood of words and send them off into the great unknown for others to read. I rarely edit, beyond the brief check for misspelled words. If I set something aside to consider it before publishing, I find that my affection for it has cooled when I return, the words turned brittle and dry, like so many autumn leaves. If it isn't good enough to post right away, it never will be good enough for me.

I was this same way when when I wrote poetry in high school. Usually, I could force words to string themselves together in a technically poetic way, but I knew none of it was any good. There was one assignment, however, that touched me. It struck a nerve and with tears streaming down my face, I scribbled out a poem in a matter of minutes. I never read that poem without feeling an echo of that initial emotion and I always marvel that it came from me. Occasionally, I manage to capture that same inspiration when posting here. Those are the days that I look back at most often, amazed that I have written something that even I can respect.