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Date Posted: 12:36:09 05/09/11 Mon
Author: Esther
Subject: HOMEWORK for 09-05-2011
I just seem to like themes of three, so once again, there will be three choices to choose from.
1. If these walls could talk, what would they say? What secret could they reveal? What happens behind those closed doors?
2. Ask yourself this question - Why do I write? This is a self-assessment exercise borrowed from Lady Lala. To this day, when I need to motivate myself, I revisit my response to her assignment. Even if you choose not to post it, I highly recommend writing out the answer.
3. A one word prompt. This time the word is ancient.
Remember there is a 2000 word limit, with no critique provided unless specifically requested. These assignments do not expire. And let’s all play nice. If someone takes the time to read and respond, please take a moment to say thank you.
Okay. That’s it.
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Since I've already done option #2, I'm going to post it before I have a chance to forget >>> -- Esther, 12:49:17 05/09/11 Mon
From original post
By E.M. Sawatzky © 2004 All rights reserved.
Passion.
It’s unquenchable. It’s exciting. It’s euphoric. Consider the foreplay, the climax and the glow of satifaction. Each stage gives exquisite ecstasy. The ultimate release, always within reach, but not as gratifying as the pleasure it takes to achieve it.
That is what typing is to me. Pleasure. Some would call it writing. For me, that’s the difference between sex and making love. I would prefer to let the words tease and tantilate the senses, without confining it to a single term. I want the thoughts to flow through the mind and over the body like silk in a gentle breeze, leaving desire to spread in its wake and consume everything in its path.
For almost three idyllic years, I’ve been having an affair. My secret yearning comes to life every time I sit down and let my fingers caress the instrument of my longing. Endless hours I suffer, needing. Endless hours I anticipate, wanting. Wonder resides in the dark. Enlightenment shines down through the rays of the sun. The world of sensation is my playground. Time is irrelevant. Responsibilities cease to exist.
My eyes close, my fingertips glide over the keys. Words appear like magic upon my screen. Only I refuse to see them for I am reluctant to escape the images in my mind. The need to transfer these vivid pictures, these intense emotions, onto paper the driving force behind everything I accomplish.
Why do I do this? To share. Without someone to read and interpret, words are just a jumble of letters. Meaningless. Useless without an audience to acknowledge them for what they are and what they inspire.
Words translate into power. They can instill hope or they can cause hurt. They can encourage or lead to anguish. They can instruct or influence. They cause reactions. They sanction the beauty of differing opinions. Love or hate, my favorite response is both. There can be no joy without sorrow. Everything has to stay in equilibrium.
This is my balance. It keeps me centered. It keeps me sane. It allows me to explore. It allows me to create. And once, in my naivete, I thought it gave me control.
I know differently now. My characters have always lurked in the back of my mind. Until Fate stepped in one predestined night. From my imagination, a character was born. With that conception, another emerged without hesitation. Each materialized through necessity; each waited with anticipation for the time when I was ready to accept them. For me to recognize and understand their purpose. I now trust the path they take me on and allow them to make their own choices.
Why do I do this? Because I have no choice. Deep inside, there is a story. I live daily with the overwhelming obsession that urges me to get a response. To deny it, is to deny who I am. I am my harshest critic, and I won’t allow myself that option.
Words are more forgiving than I. They have elasticity built in, the gift of flexibility, the luxury of choice. Part of the allure is learning. To give up is not an option. One must overcome the challenges and recognize the opportunities. The intensity is a craving that once tasted will not be denied. The sacrifices are nothing when compared to the reward. After all, this is my voice. My passion. It’s my creation. Words are just the tool used to construct new worlds and introduce new people. My wish is to compel the reader to go on this journey with me, to make them feel, to make them believe. Whatever the conclusion and however I decide to reach it.
Often I have to take time to remember that for every guideline there is an exception to the rule. Someone has transgressed the line and met with success. As a mistress of words, I feel an obligation to rebel against the constraints imposed, to push my desire to the limit. To question. Who said so, and why does it apply to me? I am only limited by my own imagination. Only my own misconceptions and fears hold me back. I will transcend the clouds.
Yet, frowned upon are the things I love the most. Does it matter? Sure it does. But it’s not the most important thing. Listening to my characters and telling their story matters. Being able to take joy in the words I type matters. To look back and see how much I’ve learned, how much I’ve grown as a person. To be true to myself. That matters.
In the end, these are just words. I wrote them. Does that make me a writer? By definition, I would have to say it does.
So why do I write?
By definition, I write because I am an author. I create. And as such, the possibilities are endless.
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Option 2 -- Lady Morilka, 06:51:31 08/21/11 Sun
Why do I write. At first I thought that was an easy one, answered in one sentence. But than I thought about it and figured it was not that easy.
The first answer would have been "therapie". I transfom the jumble of thoughts that I have when moved strongly (good or bad) into poetry. I started with a diary but that didn't work out for me. It just led me to drift deeper and deeper into miserie while te good stuff was jotted down in a few words.
I am a person who can draw herself into emotions again and again just by thinking of long lost situations. So for me poetry is a good thing, I need to sort my thoughts instead of dwelling in them. I get to the core of my feelings and that helps me to overcome.
BUT it became more. By starting to write poetry I saw how I can capture feelings way better than simply writing them down. By now my inspirations are numerus, it can be the line of a song, a picture, a landscape, an inscription or personal memories and emotions. I think THAT is what made me a writer.
But it is in many whays harder than writing novels. You can't force inspiration, you don't have loose ends at which to begin and you don't have an outline of a story or a charakter. But ist makes the writing itself easier I think since I only write when I have an inspiration it can happen that the words just flow, some of my best poems have only taken minutes to write. The hardest are those where I have an image in mind and no clue jet as to how to describe it.
I allways write in a notebook since writing by hand allows you to revisit things that got scratched out at any point of the process. And flipping through it can provide inspirations, or a started poem (or noted insiration) may suddenly come to a close by revisiting it. I wouldn't have that feeling sitting at a computer.
And when I started thinking about this assingement I realised once again that I have allways written poetry, starting in elementary school, when the main idea still was that it needed to rhyme. Just the themes changed and matured as much as the thechnikes. By now I reached the state where I can write songs, which for me is a new level since not only do the words have to fit and make sense but the verses need to have a certain repetetiv charakter to fit the melody.
I don't write often but i never stopped entirely and I don't think I ever will.
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Hey Lady Morilka! It's great to see you! >>> -- Esther, 15:44:06 08/23/11 Tue
I've read some beautiful poems here on the LIT board. I've also greatly admired those that can write poetry, and not just because it is something I have never been capable of. I've stated before that I just don't get poetry, and I now suspect it's because of the way I look at things.
The great thing about your post is that I have a clearer picture of the process now, and while I doubt I'll ever be able to put my thoughts into prose the way you do, at least I have a better understanding of where you are coming from.
You, my dear, have a poet's heart.
I had a few revelations while reading your post. You are so right - it's not the character that's involved in a poem. It's an emotion. And emotion, those true feelings, cannot be engineered or written into being. They just are. Characters and stories can be judged, manipulated and conjured from a blank page, but emotions, the way someone feels, can not be made into being. And that is what makes them precious and real. That is the power of a poem. It's immediate and the why of it isn't as important as the fact that it just is.
Inspiration is all around us, and it is indeed writers that do more than merely observe what is happening around us. We put that inspiration into words. It takes ability to do so, and I must say it's a talent you posssess in abundance.
Thank you for taking the time to share your insights. I appreciate it!
Hugs
Esther
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Glad you got something out of my posting as it was actually quite personal and I was hesitant to post it at all. -- Lady Morilka, 03:08:55 08/25/11 Thu
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