I have come to the conclusion that a writer must come to terms with fragmentation. A lack of completeness haunts my writing, no matter the labor that goes into it. This sentence or that paragraph may be better served if revised, but then there is the tendency to change it. Perfection is the ideal never achieved.
Writing is synonymous with haunting. An intangible idea nagging at the corner of the mind, willing itself into existence through the unfortunate soul that happens to tap into the flotsam of untapped ideas.
Catalyst as turn of phrase, an unforgotten dream, a national event or passion. It, being the notion to write, is a common thing. It occurs to nearly everyone at some point in time. “Oh my life story would be unbelievable,” they say, over and again.
It’s that ill-gotten compulsive drive, the elusive spirit, somewhat anti-social behavior that antagonizes an individual to sit for hours in front of the computer, at first agonizing over words and phrases. Later it becomes a labor of love. The writer becomes the creator for scenes, worlds, parallel universes.
As much as we think of the human race as a mix of pathologies, it is that love-hate-love-ambivalent personality that sits down to write and forms a society’s ideas about those illnesses. Only because it is their own.
That writer, (whoever it may be) has held hands with that illness, danced with demons, flown to Saturn, contracted a martian illness and barely escaped some human catastrophe. Okay, given most of these experiences are all in the mind of the writer, it makes them no less real to the subconscious or to the blank page they end up on.