I wanted to write a post today calling it Love Starved. The idea was that simple affection, day to day reinforcement of this feeling of love is almost entirely lacking in our society. As I was saying goodbye to one of my friend’s on the phone, I inadvertently said I love you. It also happened to be true, for I very much do love my friend. It was inadvertent only because the habit of tumbling words out of my mouth is far easier when I am talking with a friend than a stranger so that the normally reserved feeling is relaxed enough for the truth to spill out. And happy that it did, for it instantly made our friendship closer and dearer to both of us. Saying we love each other is now the easiest of things. And has the bonus of being true.

But almost immediately, my mind wanted to turn from love to politics. Ugh. Bad mind.

It is curious, though, that a post ostensively about love, I should want to begin with politics. So I don’t. Instead, I pause. What is this pause? A repose? A vacation? A nightmare? Even before I begin, I am at a loss. The gap between contemplation and writing is acute. This is a fundamental part of the writing process, but one rarely seen in the final product. Is hides itself like shame.

We say this gap is a loss for words, but this is untrue. Words are never a problem for a writer. And yes I know, writers will protest this statement above all. But words are not the problem unless we think the act of writing is purely about word choice, and language is only a systemizing of words. Writers reject this by the desire to write something else, beyond words.

Nor is it a loss of an idea. The writer’s block, in this sense, is pure fiction (and not the good kind). The pause can be short, long, or eternal but it goes with the love of writing. The pause, the gap between writings can quickly turn into an anxiety about losing the ability to write, then aching for the desire to return, then paranoia.

The pause is essential to the writing process, forcing the weeds and the flowers to germinate. Is that because the weeds and flowers are inseparable? Is there a deeper connection that only the act of writing can and must liberate?

My art, my mind, my instinct are naturally aroused, forcing me into deeper contemplation about the subject. It is a glimpse of something not yet formed. Go back and rework it until the image appears before you. Writing is not simple dictation. It is maternal, annular, a spinning concentric shell.

This is why my mind and thoughts confound me. To others, I must seem incomprehensible at these times.

The real threat to writing is the loss of time spent away from the creative process. Write, read, think, observe. Do that, and you are creating. We give up our lives in pursuit of the inessential masking as the important, the day to day. So here create a refuge and resist. Shut off the phone. Or better yet, turn your phone into a character.

So here, we do not need to be perfect. Not ever. Humanity never got anywhere without error.  We should resist the urge to always be profound, the commandment that thou must always make sense for the sake of closure.  To end, though, is only a matter of this…