A personal renaissance
I used to write a lot.
In fact, I wrote so much that it near reached a state of reflex. I could write (type, I should say) almost as fast as I could think.
The interesting consequence to this was that I could almost surprise myself with the writing. What eventually ended up on the page moved there so fast from the brainsparks and finger twitching that I really didn't have time to process it. My process of editing was, I have to imagine, the exact same experience as someone reading it for the first time.
I miss that.
Right now, there's more self-consciousness than self-awareness in my writing. None of that flow, spontaneity, natural inclination for absurdity.
I miss that.
For the longest time I thought I'd just burnt out the writing muscle. That I'd used it with such emphatic thrust, and for so prolonged a duration, that it had effectively atrophied from overuse--which led to me using it far, far less; which then induced atrophy from underuse.
If you haven't guessed, I like (over)thinking almost as much as I like(d) writing.
Although, over time, I've come to realise that's not the whole picture. I mean, don't get me wrong, it's still me at the crux of the issue--as it often is, inconvenient as that may be--but it's not all me.
When I started writing, I was coming off a fascination (very similar to this point in my life) with flash animations. I was switching mediums, so to speak.
Blogging was one of the last things I dipped my toes in (and dived into head-first almost immediately) before the rise of the walled gardens completely distorted my relationship with the web. (I'm still not over the shock of seeing people's actual names displayed on a webpage; with their photos, no less! Someday I'll breathe easy again, about this, I hop; just not today.)
So, in a sense, it's like that last trace echo that I still return to or try my best to keep within grasp--a kind of faded nostalgia hung up in the depths of my memory-wardrobe.
Anyway, all that to say, I hope you (dear reader) will have the patience to put up with me long enough that I spin that patience into interest and draw you in over and over again. Mostly to keep myself motivated, and by keeping myself motivated, to keep myself writing. Nothing like the capacity to entertain, to foster assurance.
If I feel a sinking feeling--not the drowning kind but the growing roots kind--I might even start moving some of my collected thoughts, scattered around the web, into this place. That's not a threat, I promise.