The Craft

This is another of those lengthy ponderings/ramblings. Consider yourself forewarned. xoxoxo


Words... I love words. I am always interested in how to put things another way, creatively, or to achieve a certain effect or tone or mood. I am always interested in how other people use words to put things in whatever way they wish to put them. I wonder if they merely use words just as they are, in random, or are their sentences carefully constructed, with purpose and meaning that only they and whoever else they told are privy to. I wonder at those whose vocabularies encompass words, phrasings and idioms that mine doesn't, how they had come upon these elements of language in their lives.

Had they constantly rubbed elbows with an intelligent, language-conscious crowd? Did they read widely, on every field of interest, every subject in the world?

I am amazed by such acquisitions, and since I have no immediate answers, I merely believe my own uneducated, purely instinctive guesses into the matter. I try to get my hands on every book that interests me. Indeed, I read every piece of reading material that so much as contains a word or phrase that piques my curiosity. I worry about the action I assume I am missing, thinking there might exist certain circles or groups that I am not aware about, who live and breathe the intricacies of language. I worry that there may be things that I need to know to become better at wordplay that I may never know.

Perhaps there are self-inflicted standards, perhaps it is instinctively knowing that there are higher levels to the abilities at the moment. It is not clear, but there is a drive in me to continually learn about styles and manners of putting things, words upon words, and new ways of looking at things. Stopping or hindering this continuous learning process might lead to mediocrity. I fear of inadequacy and incompetence in this craft that I happen to love, because of what I may not know. And I just find that unacceptable, because I know it in my gut that this is what I was born to do. It is difficult to speak of any other feasible job that I would want to practice as near to perfection as I could deem.

I believe this is what I want to be called as or be thought of. And if others may decline to think so, I hereby and thenceforth proclaim that I am --amateur, but yes, a writer. As a preventive measure to complications arising from differences of opinion, the matter of my being a writer is self-imposed, should other contentions (e.g., natural ability) be deemed inapplicable.

To simplify it all, I am one because I say I am one. The world will agree, or it will respect that declaration. Either way, they will call me a "writer", or by any other term that means the same thing. Self-proclaimed or whatever.

xoxoxo

I don't really know how I will go about life as a writer. I am uncertain of what kind of writer I would go down in history as. I'm quite doubtful about becoming a novelist. The work seems, I don't know, daunting. I fear, though I am a writer (because I proclaim to be, if for no other reason), I am not too fond of intricately twisted or even heart-wrenching plots (with J. Grisham and N. Sparks particularly in mind), unless I myself am the reader. It will cost me too much brooding and too much time. It's still too early, the time is not yet ripe for such decisions. We never know, but we never know.

I'd like to leave further ponderings of my writing career to the near future, but here is one more hopefully helpful insight about what it might be. I do like to put my thoughts down on just about anything that keeps me awake at night, stirs me from my idle lounging on the sofa, or just plain spurs my mind to keep its cogs in good repair. It helps me think about things better. It helps me learn. Most relevantly though, it puts my wordplay abilities to good use.

To articulate one's thoughts and emotions, to aptly match the descriptive term to the mental image or sentiment, is a small but satisfying task, from which I derive a warm pleasure every time.

Which leads me to consider the idea of becoming an essayist. In my partially educated belief, an essay can concern just about anything, anything at all, at the author's personal discretion, and in a formal or informal manner.

So, let's see...

A boundless playing field to attempt to cover. Endless combinations of variations in wordplay.

Sounds like fun. So yeah. Why not.


But that will be the furthest that I will go for now. As of today, such talk is still woven of the very fabric of the future: uncertainty.

Ostentatiously Making Sense

It could be that one creates the ends that come about in one's life, whether one may like them or one may not. The ceaseless naggings of self-doubt wears on one after a while, that one is compelled to choose self-preservation above otherwise important priorities. The rationality of such personal uncertainties does not even substantiate such choice to be chosen. Anxiety is so much a human essence, so embedded into the most basic core of being, that the responses are practically automatisms. Notwithstanding, you learn to frown upon such mechanisms of the human psyche, albeit subconscious and so, involuntary, for the unhealthy outcomes it can create in relationships. When in certain instances you would only aspire for the happy continuance of such intimate connections, the invisible triggers of anxiety and its spontaneous outputs fairly manage to complicate the simplicity of such goals. The road to accomplishing supposedly simple objectives becomes riddled with all manner of hindrances, that the traveler down such road undoubtedly experiences adversities, often in varying intensities. Furthermore, it is often than not that the unfortunate pilgrim is tested beyond his limits and is continually made to confront his imperfections by overcoming them, which does not at all seem uncomplicated, even just by itself. One is hence inclined to sigh both in pity for the journeying fellow and in the stark realization that it is simply the way that all life proceeds, though there is anything but simple about it. Life is intrinsically complicated, arduous, and problematic. All are hopelessly intricately entangled by a pernicious coincidence into its unintelligible tapestry.

Heart or Limbic System or Whatever

Love is so blind, it feels right when it's wrong...


Knowing when something's wrong is fairly easy; it won't feel right. It's knowing if it's right that's somewhat tricky. 'Cause, you know, it might feel right even if it's wrong.

Or...well, I'm confused. Why would something wrong feel right? Cancer hurts because there's something wrong.

Okay, here it is. Right or wrong belongs in the logic department. Use your head to determine right from wrong, wrong from right. Never determine one from the other using your heart, or limbic system, whatever. Tends to confuse the unfortunate soul in such predicament.

And if it's a little too late 'cause you've already used your heart (or limbic system or whatever) to lose your way, use your head to find your way back. It's how the text message goes, and it makes sense.

Correction...

So I discovered a link from a comment on one of my older posts that led me to read, oh, just one or two hate posts about me. I know it was about me, of course, because I happen to know the blog owner (I seem unable to apply the term "blogger"). And there's also the time that she said one of those slanderous words she used against me in her posts, literally behind my back. So perhaps that doesn't leave much room for doubt about who the intended receiver of those electronic hate publications is. I pretty much know the story behind the whole drama, although she pretty much took great liberty at interpreting my whole life, blog, and demeanor for me - in a very malicious and insulting way, I might add. I am the only person who can say what things are for me with certainty, but I guess everyone is indeed entitled to an opinion, regardless of accuracy and truth content.

But that was long ago, though I don't think anyone would forget anytime soon. Amidst the foul effects of her blind rage, she raised a question in my mind that I would like to elaborate on: Am I really that kind of person who does not know how to value friendship? Do I truly use friendship as a tool to achieve my selfish intentions?

I will admit to many things (except to what she had been accusing me of), including being not too friendly and sociable. I make my way in life not picking up a lot of friends as I go. I swim through social situations without making at least one person think of me in a new and enlightened way, or at least make them think again about their initial impressions. But that probably doesn't mean it's because I'm evil, does it? There could be several good reasons, and her best bet could have been psychological. Not having close friends, or just having friends, for that matter, does not automatically make me a poor appraiser of the value of friendship. Not having friends does not entitle me the description "manipulative" (not her own words). I don't think so.

Because I do value friendship. The person who has less of something, makes that person value that thing more, I guess. I do not operate by the statement "I don't need anyone", because simply put, I need others. It's not easy to bottle up emotions all the time, for lack of a sounding board to beat the melodrama away. But I don't know how it would be that simple to open up to someone whom you have not learned to become comfortable sharing your emotions with. There are people I am surrounded by on an almost day-to-day basis, but I don't think I can spill my insides to them. They're the type that first needs...well, pleasing. It's a different thing that you try to please others so that they will accept you and become their friend, from that you become other people's friend because they know and accept who you are, even if they don't totally like you. Whoever said that you have to please people first before you become their friend? Well that's how it is right now, where I am. I do not agree, and I could not bring myself to conform. Plus totally pathetic social skills equals no close friends at the moment.

I value friendship, but I don't think you make friends because you value friendship. You become friends with people. And that's because you can connect with them. It's the connection, not the necessity, that paves the way for friendship to develop and grow. Maybe we've developed our own ideals about friendship that we force them upon ourselves and those people we consider our friends. And we make all these expectations that we think are intrinsic in a friendship, and end up disappointing ourselves and others. And sometimes, we cannot even be blamed, for do we not all wear some type of colored glasses, that we each see things in a different light?

But anyway, maybe I am socially inept. Being that as it may, it still does not translate that friendship is a functional relationship for me. Well yeah, some friendships can be functional. And perhaps everyone has had one or two at some point in their lives. But in the context that was used, I should take issue with that person. But then I guess, no matter how twistedly malicious her point of view was, I saw where she was coming from, so I can say, regardless of the somewhat strong urge to retaliate, I understand. It's one of those instances that you want to indulge your emotions, but you still have enough sense left to realize that there really is nothing to gain in doing so. And you get uneasy from the internal turmoil that you have to let it out somehow. This is what it's all about, I guess.