I get so worried about writing well that I reason away nearly everything that pops into my head as it relates to writing about it here.
Every single day I see or hear or read or do or watch something that turns itself into words and sentences that would best serve torecount it all the way I’m experiencing it. Sentences get reworked and reordered and I think about these things three different ways just mulling over the way I’d write it to convey what it is in a way that would make sense to you.
Whoever you are.
That’s the thing, right? I don’t know who you are.
You could be my mom. Hi mom. I know you’re probably there, thanks to the wonderment that is Facebook and my feeding every piece of my digital life into its gushing lifestream. Amazing shit, right mom? I told you all along this stuff wasn’t just here to stay…I told you it’d reshape the way we could all communicate. I think I even said that all this new scary and seemingly distracting technology was bringing us all closer to one another. That were now at one another’s fingertips.
I bet you didn’t think you’d be reading my diary on Facebook, wishing I wasn’t so far away right now, huh?
I miss you too.
The rest of you could be people I know and love, or maybe you’re a blogger who’s been hanging out with me in this weird party for the last few years. It’s okay that I’m not sure who you are. It shouldn’t really matter.
I mean it matters. Of course. You definitely matter, no matter who you are.
I not only worry about writing well because I want to be able to write well. I think it might actually be more of a need than a want, honestly. I think I love how writing allows you to deliberately try to communicate clearly. With precision. With deeper emotion, a way to talk without your voice getting in the way. Truly communicating is a holy grail for humanity; to feel known and understood. I need to think I can use words to really be known.
No, I worry about you guys, too, and I want to write well in front of you. I wonder about you and I wonder why you might spend a few minutes reading the sentences that do finally get to my keyboard from all of those splashes of inspiration that the world keeps throwing at me. Back in the day I used to just throw words at the screen. Early and often.
I used to say fuck the filter and fuck the rest stops and seriously fuck it all: writing is heroic. The act of it moreso than the product when you think about blogging, because in the end blogging isn’t about the endgame.
There’s no book to sell and we stopped putting ads on our blogs before I ever started. We’re not closing in on the sale here…we’re driving with the top down and life is passing us by and we’re gonna try and share it all with one another.
Or I’m gonna try and share that with you, anyway.
Writing well be damned.