Countess
11-17-2005, 12:07 PM
This came out of me last night I say came out of me because I never plan what I am going to write beforehand, though I have a loose idea or two. Oftentimes, however, these loose ideas are usurped in the making and what comes out is something completely different, yet fresh. Perhaps you have the same experience with your art I know not, but here it is:
I know you are sick and thus unable to construct a healthy sentence - much less a well-formed letter - but as I have a habit of writing a very bad habit (I think there is even a name for this compulsion - Cacoethes scribendi) I ask you to bear with me as I scribe to you once more. In fact, please do not feel obliged in any way to respond une-pour-une; it will more than suffice me to know that you have simply read what I have written.
All writers desire to be read; in fact, it can be said that it is their singular yearning, the purpose behind the very act itself. They wish to express themselves and to have another person comprehend them, and if they are frustrated in their intention they will simply cease writing entirely. Unfortunately, it is rather toxic to an author to quit his art, for then he is cut off from the rest of humanity, and he begins to accumulate at least internally circular thoughts and emotions that begin and end in themselves. This hyperconsciousness or perhaps it is merely a sensitivity to consciousness can grow to such a disproportionate level that it drives a man mad. A mad writer is an author who has been poisoned by his own work. Left unexpressed in its concentrated form, the self loses its structure, and chaos erupts in the soul.
But, as usual, I digress (digression is my cardinal sin I have you know. I will always finish a thought, though it may take me two hours to get back around to it.)
I know you are sick and thus unable to construct a healthy sentence - much less a well-formed letter - but as I have a habit of writing a very bad habit (I think there is even a name for this compulsion - Cacoethes scribendi) I ask you to bear with me as I scribe to you once more. In fact, please do not feel obliged in any way to respond une-pour-une; it will more than suffice me to know that you have simply read what I have written.
All writers desire to be read; in fact, it can be said that it is their singular yearning, the purpose behind the very act itself. They wish to express themselves and to have another person comprehend them, and if they are frustrated in their intention they will simply cease writing entirely. Unfortunately, it is rather toxic to an author to quit his art, for then he is cut off from the rest of humanity, and he begins to accumulate at least internally circular thoughts and emotions that begin and end in themselves. This hyperconsciousness or perhaps it is merely a sensitivity to consciousness can grow to such a disproportionate level that it drives a man mad. A mad writer is an author who has been poisoned by his own work. Left unexpressed in its concentrated form, the self loses its structure, and chaos erupts in the soul.
But, as usual, I digress (digression is my cardinal sin I have you know. I will always finish a thought, though it may take me two hours to get back around to it.)