Like any professional journalist, I have provided advance work in anticipation of my spring vacation. Not only three weeks advance posts, but this fourth entry to explain the profusion.
And oh, oh, oh, are the clichés and slang building up to…to…to…a molten core, forged on the crucible of Vulcan, purged by the mighty bellows of Hades to erupt upon the pages, brilliantly hot, scalding with fresh nuance.
That was close, “Critical mass” was on my finger tips, seeking release, but along with my other resolutions to further my writing career and firm up the ‘ol buttocks, I am abstaining from common clichés and other rote comparisons in continued honor of Janet Finch and other great literary geniuses. But, dang, clichés are hovering, waiting for any opportunity to sneak from the shadows, escape the rigors of captivity to once again lay upon the screen, black tuxedo with white tie, like the keys of a piano.
I weaken, like an addict stumbling on the stoop of a twelve step program. Seeking familiar voices, a favorite song no longer on the charts, fallen to ridicule and parody. Still the melody haunts. The addictive words chanted over and over again, pounding inside the skull with the persistence of a pitiless metronome. Give in to the easy answers, the vulgar, mindless phrases that bind us one to another, in familial lubrication of sound and sight. Create a secret, hidden blog, the addict thinks, indulge in all the forbidden lexicons, the short cuts to understanding, the labor saving devices of communication. Who will notice? There are no empty bottles to dispose of, no illicit contacts or pay off to be made. Type, type, type, slip, slip, slip, back to the mundane, the ordinary, worn furnishing, past their prime, still comfortable, but not worthy of the spot light or keener exploration.
This was a good exercise. Writing is like calling a sponsor when the pull of addiction is too strong. Help me be strong. Don’t let me slide back, keep me moving forward with conviction.
I digressed from my original thought, yet captured the essence through an entirely different path. So it is with writing, whether telling stories in fiction or distilling my own roiling thoughts and volatile emotions, the physical act of writing brings clarity, substance, and insight. (Wait, can I compare this to diamonds? The four C’s. I have the seed for another pearl of a blog).
I love to write!