Thoughts of an Author in Training
I certainly feel more comfortable and infinitely more creative when in nature. What consumes my energy and attention indoors only clouds my thoughts and my path to the page. Even in simply crossing the threshold from my apartment sliding door to the patio, very much enclosed, I feel inspiration inflate me.
It’s Thoreau’s assumption that farther from civilization and deep in nature you’re closer to the divine. Divine not being the almighty and powerful god above but in the purest sense the closest we come to understanding existence and unabated essence. I don’t know if it’s possible, or academically correct to bridge feelings of the divine with ideas of transcendentalism, but for me it provides some direction in how to handle the difficulties in being human.
Either way, leaving the material realm which I’m comfortably distracted by and entering into the open air, my mind rushes with fresh ideas and conjunctive thoughts. I find myself word vomiting even now to satisfy these twitter patted fingers and wild fantasies to create something amazing. I want so badly for my words to affect even the smallest of strangers and elevate this pain of worthlessness I feel when I do not write. I battle the endless villains of my self esteem and give in to the unfortunate circumstances of convincing myself that it’s pointless to string words together in order to entertain.
It’s as if a bomb exploded in my head releasing tiny Spartans here to destroy any confidence or grandeur that I’ve spent my life creating. A siege of war funded, executed and surrendered by myself.
The smallest of unrest is spawned for example by the disgraceful fact of my terrible spelling. Had it not been for the invention of spell check I would have no grounds for a profession in writing what so ever. Or maybe I would be a tremendous speller because I would have to know and recognize my grammatical faults beyond the help of a machine. It’s reassuring that I can fake my ability to spell behind the clicks of a keyboard, but an internal voice laughs every time I share with others that I want to be a writer. The voice knows that I can not spell. It’s a mechanic without having ever seen a car, a chief that can’t taste or a therapist having never read Freud. There’s a missing piece to the fundamental essence of the profession. It feels like cheating at times. A simple right click and no one would doubt my compilation of letters except for myself.
But when I enter into nature a realm of comfort and forgiveness exposes itself. My thoughts ride the wind and elevate the pressure of a very human audience. I feel that if nature can exist against all destruction by man and survive its own cruel punishments, than I should be able to silence my own negativity and give into what’s natural.
I was born to write. Not that I believe in destiny nor do I give into a strong feeling of manifest destiny, I simple recognize the power of what I can and can’t do and I plan to harvest the feelings inside me to share. I can’t hide anymore. I can not agree with the beating thoughts in my head any longer.