I wish to be a writer.
I’m more of a typist.
A typist that can often keep up, to some degree, with taking dictation from her own mind.
A mind that yearns to hear and tell stories.
To write stories she wants to tell.
To be a writer.
Each pass through a typed story – it grows longer in word count.
More editing needed to make the transitions smooth from original thought, and two hours later?
I need to split this out into a different story/a different chapter.
I’m tired now.
I’ll write something for my blog tomorrow.
I need to post something! Easter is long over.
Note to self.
Don’t re-blog a post tied to holiday on the calendar posts, UNLESS you already have a more current one written and ready to auto-publish.
I’m deep in typing the dictation of my mind.
I’m deep in the writer’s lament – the typist’s lament.
“Okay – so what was first sentence, grew into 2 – grew into current story, back story, fleshed out. Now? You’ve added, rewritten various lines so damn much? You have successfully churned out 5, 527 words most of which tell a story – but now? You have to edit it – let it sit. Maybe get back to it in a day or two – “
But I won’t.
History has proven to me I’ll let it sit.
Perhaps for 10 years.
Never go back and edit/break it out into a more beautiful dance.
Maybe to delete forever in a fit of pure frustration.
Oh so many words thought, dictated, typed, over the years, have been deleted.
Over and over and over – though the theme of them – their dance – the memories within them return to pay a visit every so often.
One that is from start to finish, compiled of one right word, phrase, sentence –
That all flows into the next one.
I should have stopped for the day around the first, furiously pounded out draft.
I should have stopped and been done for day.
But I couldn’t bear not to re-read – remind myself of another point, start fiddling with things and hours later?
A tome that will probably never see the light of day –
At least, not in this format.
Easier to just re-write it.
Easier to hear back the words and lines I loved.
Easier to write brand new than to go back and try to make sense out of that non-edited, added too many words to, stream of being a typists.
I don’t know if I’ll ever learn how to do that.
I start to despair if I ever will learn how to stop soon enough….
Or if I shall ever learn to revisit often enough.