Emperor of Your Cocoon
I went through some old writing tonight. I've got a lot of old arting that I try not to go through very often, but I've forgotten how much old writing I have, as well. But the old writing in question tonight was from two collections, both of which I self-published. The first, a small collection of blog posts I compiled into a book entitled 'Almost Genious.' I wrote it about six years ago. I don't remember writing a lot of them. Well, I do. And then I don't. And that makes me feel odd.
There are a few memories in there that I'm glad I got down. I'll have them forever now, as long as I remember to go read them from time to time, of course. I think it's important that I remembered them in their shiniest forms, too. Sure, there are a few dusty ones I kept (it's imperative), but by and large, I kept a lot of the shiniest ones.
The second collection I went through was my European travelogue 'Don't Mind Us. An American's European Travelogue.' This one I'm proud of. Surprised myself with a few of the passages, how they flowed and wrapped. They were brisk and clean, sharper than I ever remembered myself being. And that's when it occurred to me.
That's why folks write.
So they can get it right. Say all the right things at all the right times.
Real life isn't really like that, is it. We stumble. We slip. We go too far, we don't go far enough.
In life, we error.
But in writing, we trust.
Mistakes are banished.
It's just you and yourself, sounding and saying exactly what you want exactly when you want to say it. There's nobody around to interject or to correct you. And there's nobody around for you to correct. Just you.
Whatta challenge. Where are you going with a statement, a thought, a paragraph, a chapter. Does it make sense? Is it a run-on? Are the punctuations correct? Is it entertaining?
Writing is a high-wire act. You're on the ledge, you're on the stage, you're performing, but it's all for someone else, somewhere else down the road a ways. But right now, it's still you, your mind and heart and soul and humor and taste, all on display to be read and, as with most everything in this life, to be judged.
But not yet.
Not until you finish in your little cocoon.
So get it right. Or get it wrong. Who are we to tell you how to write?
You're the Emperor.
You tell us.