As often happens (more and more these days, it seems), my mind is filled with focusing in on one idea in the early morning, but then as hours go by I’ve picked up more ideas. Those that are unrelated I can either discard or write about, but it is those that tie together that preclude the setting down. Tuned to “research” mode, the theories are noted, refuted, grown and refined until, at last acceptable–though far short of brilliant–they formulate themselves into a more compact and interesting line of thought.
Right now, as well as for the past few hours, I am tying in with comments from Denny and Rethabile to a post below called “Writing: Senses”, and have traveled o’er the giant web encircling earth to deeper delve into the topic and the subtopics raised, especially from a post that Rethabile has On English that references an article (and of course, another direction to take) on writing as therapy.
Obviously, my writing has been impacted by personal emotions of the past six months (and more), but I don’t see it as therapy as much as a different way of seeing things–the writing affecting my feelings as much as the other way around; but that is therapy too, I suppose. There is a line from a poem called “Thought Touch” written by Blake Anderson, one of our Narratives members that goes, “Veins of life’s torments attach themselves to my pen”, and bleed my emotions onto paper.” This is the thought I’ve had all morning, that each knife wound to the mind flows puddles of black text as blood.
But the mind must take its time to sort it out, and so it will be a little while yet until I come to some conclusions, or at the very least, a reasonable question.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology