I always seem to have an urge to get my thoughts and revelations out on paper or cyberspace for that matter, but what is it that draws you to form words in ways that work and don't just exist? Do I write because I take pleasure in rearranging sentences so they take some thought to figure out? Or do I write merely for the thought of how romantic the thought of writing is?
Here is my setting at this moment...
I am sitting at 45 degrees on my unmade bed surrounded by the low lighting created by a single fan light reflecting off the dark sunset colours of my walls. My bamboo blinds make it possible for me to see the drizzle outside that was forcasted as flurries. There is a sombre mood in the sky is due to clouds seeing as it is only 330 in the afternoon and not yet dark. The room in which I sit holds no inspiration unless I felt inclined to write about dust bunnies and the array of odds and sods they can be found in. The chaos of my unfiled pictures leaves me frustrated as they can be found on every dresser top and cork board. Closet doors wedged open with last seasons handbags and clothes that are not dirty enough to be washed yet not clean and therefore unable to be put back in the drawer. So here I sit on a break from university maintaining my sanity only by listening to the drops of 'supposed to be' flurries and entertaining myself by meaninglessly punching my laptops keys in hopes of producing something worth rereading.
As I am surrounded by the above descriptions I ponder if I truly am a writer...or do I just desire the romance that is beautiful writing? Do I try to hard to be that individual who stops at bookshops and who sits by herself at coffee shops dating the page turner that never leaves her fingers. Or am I really part writer who loves the art and who not only loves the thought of loving the art.
I have realized I love to write when it is not a must do. If I were a professional which may not even be possible I would detest the thought of stringing words together in phenomenal ways, but as a girl who can sit and type when she wants and about what is dwelling inside her is frankly awfully alluring. So I will continue my meaningless writing that enterains only myself for if there was anyone else reading and enjoying I might feel pressured and therefore no longer see the enticing factor writing has to offer.
Feel free to join me in the indulgence of writing upon inspiration and not upon deadline and we shalll share in each others thoughts, knowing they come from the heart and not from under an iron fist of pressure.
Here is my setting at this moment...
I am sitting at 45 degrees on my unmade bed surrounded by the low lighting created by a single fan light reflecting off the dark sunset colours of my walls. My bamboo blinds make it possible for me to see the drizzle outside that was forcasted as flurries. There is a sombre mood in the sky is due to clouds seeing as it is only 330 in the afternoon and not yet dark. The room in which I sit holds no inspiration unless I felt inclined to write about dust bunnies and the array of odds and sods they can be found in. The chaos of my unfiled pictures leaves me frustrated as they can be found on every dresser top and cork board. Closet doors wedged open with last seasons handbags and clothes that are not dirty enough to be washed yet not clean and therefore unable to be put back in the drawer. So here I sit on a break from university maintaining my sanity only by listening to the drops of 'supposed to be' flurries and entertaining myself by meaninglessly punching my laptops keys in hopes of producing something worth rereading.
As I am surrounded by the above descriptions I ponder if I truly am a writer...or do I just desire the romance that is beautiful writing? Do I try to hard to be that individual who stops at bookshops and who sits by herself at coffee shops dating the page turner that never leaves her fingers. Or am I really part writer who loves the art and who not only loves the thought of loving the art.
I have realized I love to write when it is not a must do. If I were a professional which may not even be possible I would detest the thought of stringing words together in phenomenal ways, but as a girl who can sit and type when she wants and about what is dwelling inside her is frankly awfully alluring. So I will continue my meaningless writing that enterains only myself for if there was anyone else reading and enjoying I might feel pressured and therefore no longer see the enticing factor writing has to offer.
Feel free to join me in the indulgence of writing upon inspiration and not upon deadline and we shalll share in each others thoughts, knowing they come from the heart and not from under an iron fist of pressure.
No comments:
Post a Comment