Words follow me everywhere I go because they fill up my head; they are an integral part of who I am. Sometimes, I wonder if it is normal to think in blog post or journal entries, in poems or short stories but that’s the way it’s always been for me. The world of my imagination is made up of words and only sometimes pictures that are then tried to be transformed into words and sentences immediately. It all accumulates inside me until one day, my capacity reaches its limits and they spill over, break free and see the light of day. These days, this mostly happens on this blog.
Sometimes, when I read a LOT, which is not happening so much these days, like reading the Deathly Hallows in 1.5 days, when I take a break from reading, random words just reverberate inside me. They can’t even be directed or formed into actual sentences. I always considered them to be an echo inside me of the words I just ingested, if you could call it that. It’s a weird feeling that I always wonder about if other people have experienced it like I did.
It’s funny how much words can mean even though they are just random letters put together when you think about it. The secret lies in what we attach with them – our emotions and feelings for the most part. We can’t influence the way letters form words but what we have influence over what we do with those words, how we treat them and string them together. Writing is an art. Not every person that writes actually knows how to utilize it properly and I’m far from omitting myself from said group.
I put a lot of stock into how sentences flow because I don’t know enough to care about anything else, like grammar. Words are there to express myself, to evoke emotions in those that read them in the way I want them to, a little bit like a puppet master. I’m afraid this all sounds too clinical for what I’m trying to describe, so let me try again.
Words are life, they are joy and despair all mingled together. Words are feelings. Sometimes writing feels to me, like I imagine regenerating feels to The Doctor if all the energy was channeled through his hands.
When the words just seem to flow out of you without having to put too much of a conscious effort into them. That’s the moment I love most. When you write without filtering or thinking. Naturally it isn’t always like that, sometimes trying to write is hard work and tedious; something I hardly enjoy at all. It is, however, a necessary step to get to the good stuff. Like peeling an orange. I guess, I just love how putting words into sentences makes me feel, looking at the finished project, especially if it’s something I can be proud of. Maybe this is all some long winded way of getting myself to finally start editing my NaNoWriMo novel. Why am I this busy lately? I don’t get it.
What are your reasons for writing?