Thursday, April 24, 2008

Word Search

Alone in the vast quiet of a deep silence my breaths steady, streaming into relaxing patterns. Here in this place of calm quiet is where I should be able to put pen to paper and expell the creativity which turns into words. But my creativity is not coaxed into cooperation by peaceful places; I find an empty page before my empty ideas when in an empty room.

From what I have been told, quiet corners of cafes and lonely beaches provide most writers with the place in which they write. When I visit Starbucks I smile secretly at those on computers, for I assume them to be a writer such as myself. Writers have declared in interviews that the best writing occurs when one is confined in a place where noises cannot separate the magic dance of pen seducing paper. Writing is a solitary activity for most; is it because perhaps this magic art does not perform for witnesses?

What have I done wrong, then? Upon putting myself in a place of perfect peace, I feel only pressure; pressure to produce a piece of writing. This pressure can be increased when I am in a picturesque place which would inspire more in most people. On a recent visit to a sandswept, golden beach where only the wind coming off white waves interrupted the secret place in my brain where thoughts reside, I found no words. I looked to the water, waiting for a perfectly finished poem to glide in on the waves: nothing. Peace was the warmth I felt on my back and the tickle I felt in the squiggles of sand between my toes, but peace was empty; it brought me no words.

Words do not come to me in moments like this, scrolling gently before my eyes. Rather, words fling themselves towards me, smacking in my brain when I am caught in wild moments: tied in talk with another I sometimes catch a word with the side of my consciouness with a twack, as if it has been thrown from a great distance. Often when caught in wild pursuit of the end of a novel when I am reading, I will steal a word from the page and hold it; dazzled by the writing which it has inspired. My hands are not free to write, as they are tied up with the arts of living, so I write in my head. While my world spins excitedly or spirals downward, words write themselves within my mind. Caught up with whatever activity is occupying my world, I sometimes try to stop the voice which speaks words from within. But the voice is one of strength and it will not stop narrating until I take leave from whatever wild moment I am livinga and commit to paper what will later be regarded as a piece of writing.
So I live out in the open and do not confine myself. I find no words in silence or being solo. I can always search for the right words, but only when living life in full color, high resolution moments will the words find me.


Temporary Home

This blogsite is our temporary home while our website undergoes an extreme makeover of epic proportions (shifted septums, pacemakers, calf implants, dialysis, a fancy wig, contacts -- the works).

This was our old home, and while it is a bit dated, it's a good source of info regarding recent issues and the history of Prism Review.

Updates will follow regarding our new home. ETA summer 2009.