It is a strange feeling to have a blank screen staring at me, and it is stranger still that I am staring back at the screen with zero thoughts in my head.
I don’t usually have this problem.
Normally, the words are bursting out of my head, and it is all I can do just to type without making too many mistakes. Now, I plod through laboriously, word after word, unable to get the flow of ideas that are my usual forte. I think this has to do with my sudden switch in thought process. Previously, when I thought I was just writing some inane long, loopy ramble on a blog post that doesn’t get much attention or foot traffic, my words rush out like some manic babbling from an idiot savant. In my mind, my audience was me plus a few others who accepted what I had to say without judgement.
This is the key to liberated thinking and writing because without judgement, I didn’t have to restrict what I wrote. I didn’t have to edit my words for any supposedly ‘sensitive’ language or material that might offend. I wrote from the heart, and from my consciousness. I didn’t care what I sounded like or what people would think. After all, I didn’t have an objective in mind. I wasn’t trying to achieve anything. I was simply being myself and doing what I loved, with no thought to consequences or ramifications.
It is quite a liberating experience. Basically, I wrote exactly as I would speak.
If you were sitting here, in front of me, and I was serving you hot jasmine tea and cake, I would speak to you in this fashion, this rambling conversational fashion which included all sorts of ideas which converge and then go off on tangents that, were I to follow, would take us out into distant galaxies.
Understand that I have very few friends with whom I would consider inviting into my home and serving tea to, and the few I would consider inviting would let me say whatever the hell I wanted and it really wouldn’t matter to them. They would not judge me because they have already accepted my abnormal strangeness, my odd penchant for that which would be considered ‘fringe’ subjects.
We certainly would not talk about hand bags and perfumes, although I could probably hold my own if needed. Certainly, there have been days when my need for maintaining this thin veil of normalcy was stronger than my need to go into a corner and read yet another book on the latest findings of some obscure scientist. I would certainly not restrict my thoughts to this tiny group of close friends, and perhaps that is why my writing is the way that it is. It is not by design, believe me.
Some days, it seems as if I can’t get the words out fast enough because my brain is stuffed to the maximum with data that needs to be expressed. I think I have detailed in one of my posts about the reams and reams of data that I sometimes receive at night, in the same way that computer information is transferred from one machine to another.
Any time one of those data transfers occurred, I would wake up the next morning exhausted, my head buzzing with information, bursting to be set free. I’d wander downstairs in search of a piece of fruit and some coffee and then I would be back upstairs and on my computer, documenting my thoughts. I always called it ‘data-dumping’ because that is how it felt to me.
Often, I would only have a vague idea of what I am trying to discuss, but in the process of writing, the information is recorded faithfully. All I have to do is go into a light trance and then try to recall the information from the recesses of my brain. A good portion of my time is also digging out information. Sometimes, what I write does not seem to be based on any hard evidence, so I actively go out there and dig out what has already or is currently being discovered, and I often find corroborating material.
Those were the days.
Now, I sit here, not sure how to put it all together. Instead of an informal tea where I spew out all my thoughts in disjointed sections and segments to a friendly audience, I have to figure out how to write a cohesive piece, with a potentially hostile audience in mind. It is no longer a fireside chat. It is cold and informal, and it is making me hesitate to speak my piece. I’m going to have to figure out how to deal with this new approach to my writing.
If I cannot do it, I will go onto my original intent, which was to write a fictional novel incorporating all these pieces of information I have, ensconced in a character-driven story whose purpose is pure entertainment.
Give me a few weeks to figure out which direction I will be heading towards.