Either writing fluidly inches its way into my imagination, and through some process of transference becomes part of what others experience, or it does not. With the cloud novel and the traditional non-feed tied URL I can effectively short circuit all external control functions, run free.
In the long run, we trust the musician we admire to find those notes, right or wrong. Half of the fun is watching ideas form, cohere, and disintegrate, and form again along other channels.
Many acclaimed works, the vast majority I would say, have reflected the current status quo, hit the zeitgeist on the nail. Reinforced what people were already thinking and could not readily express. With the Pandora's box of live feeds not only open but infinitely streaming, it is very hard to find way stations to take stock–– routes that reach the requisite number of people to constitute, if not a movement, a tangent of forward-evolving thought.
The blog site as an island of my own making. A bit of volcanic rock sticking out on the beach.
There is a certain clarity in the best writing that is not exceptionally sexy. It is not suited to device attention spans, despite the valiant efforts of Tweet poets and their longform Medium contenders.
Back to a simple SMS texting Samsung it is amazing how quickly my mind snaps back into a less frantic mode that is tuned toward reflection. How quickly we flip through smartphone channels on our way to nowhere.
Meanwhile, in endurance mode, I keep pushing on in the type of minute gradations of progress that serious prose requires. Not concerned about getting the words exactly right, concerned rather about how vividly I convey impressions that are by nature amorphous and unsettled.
Procrastination, that sinking feeling––10 years removed from a place I never fully understood, how can I ever get Hayao's decent into the Tokyo underworld exactly right? I cannot, unless I convince myself that what I made up from half-glimpsed memory is true.