I'm afraid I do not always fit into Charles Bukowski's vision of what a writer should feel.
Sure, sometimes the words come burning out of me, almost too quickly for me to write them down. The roar of writing will hit me from time to time, and I cannot stop writing for anything.
Not for food.
Not for drink.
Not for friends.
The words are threatening to burn me if I don't release them. Ink onto cream paper, line after line filled with the same 26 letters rearranged to create something potentially beautiful.
Yet at other times, the burning is gone. In its place, a pile of ashes. The words I was not quick enough to grab before they were incinerated by the burning within. Oh, how those words could have formed into memorable sentences, had I only been more alert, more prepared to take them down.
The burning comes when I least expect it, and leaves when I need it the most. It throws thoughts and stories at me, yet when I begin to write them down, they scatter.
So, according to Charles Bukowski, I may not be a writer. Maybe, according to him, I should stop doing it.
But, I can't. Even when I'm stuck and the burning has been swamped out, I cannot stop. Writing is a part of me, and will always come back to me.
I'm this way, as well. Sometimes writing's tough, and the words don't come to me - doesn't mean I'm about to stop. I care too much for that.
ReplyDeleteSo familiar. I think most of the great writers have experienced this as well... so definitely never stop writing.
ReplyDeleteI don't always fit it either. Sometimes I just sit and stare and stare at the blank page.
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