Dating to the beginnings of my keeping a notebook, and in between travel tips and small high school anecdotes, sometimes I write about writing. About what it feels like, why we do it. Why I do it. Just as a coincidence, it was my WordPress anniversary on June 12th, and since these 2 years of writing, it is high time I write. About writing.
“I’ve never thought of myself as a writer. I still don’t. I also don’t know why. Writing has never particularly been a favorite with me. I don’t write stories for fun, or keep a diary (although this is similar)… When I write, it’s with enthusiasm about all of the words I’m shaping into moving snapshots of the places I’ve been. Or into the tapestry of my thoughts. Or into the rising and falling sound of my feelings. But I don’t think of myself as a writer.”
-Written on the train from Xi’an to Taiyuwan, China. April, 2012.
Since then I guess this has become a diary. But a sophisticated one I hope, lacking the stereotypical “dear diary” nonsense and the endless ramblings of a simple day and instead, my thoughts.
“I love how writing makes time stop still. It captures that moment, that snapshot, and keeps it present for the future. But that could be said about all art – about photography and song. Writing has something different though. It is not a visible representation of all we see, but a collage of words, the ultimate catalyst to communication, to relationships, to the sharing of your soul and your thoughts.”
“I just finished Earnest Hemingway’s “For whom the bell tolls”. I don’t pretend to understand all of it – but it is about more than war and the Spanish culture. More than the endurances of the soul and the acceptance of the passing of life. Its chaotic writing style that is neither one way or another and its constantly evolving point of view almost mimics the human soul. It mimics the way we think – a chaotic mess that is impossible to follow, and yet provides us with all we need to know.”
“Sometimes fewer words provide you with more. And when they don’t suffice to describe exactly what you mean, the writer must just trust, trust in the hope that the reader understands. Such as now. That is why we write. To make our feelings shareable, understandable. It is useless we all know. Feelings are indescribable. And maybe it is this acceptance and thereafter utter denial that provides us with the most beautiful art.”
“You sit down with the intent to write what was in your head so beautifully, and instead write about something completely different – it is like the lines of the page spur a landslide of thoughts, and this time, just this once, you pen is as close to your thoughts as can be in the chasm of time.”
-Written in Berlin. Yesterday.