Most of the time, I love being a writer. I love the energy of brainstorming on a power surge, I love discovering a new piece as I write it, I love the satisfaction of a finished work and the runner's high feeling of expressing on paper an exact feeling or moment as it exists in my head. I love being woken up in the middle of the night, my head raging with the inspiration possessing it. I love words.
But there are times it frustrates me, too. Brain bombardment, for example. Something that can be, (and often is), a great gift, but it also serves as a curse at times. When I get so overwhelmed with ideas that I can't get them out quick enough and then something is always missing even though I don't know what it is.
And then there are those times (luckily gradually becoming more infrequent) when a great idea is almost there, almost there, but I can't quite make it out. I can't quite say just what I mean to say. (Yes, Mr. Prufrock, it is impossible to say just what I mean.) The ideas and thoughts are not the issue: no shortage there. But the excreting of the bubbles in my brain and translating them into solid items - from cerebral matter to words on paper - that is where I grow feeble. I feel like an old person, and old criminal, writing a memoir, trying to explain. But where to begin? The difficulty is what to say to create not just a story but an experience, and to call up emotions from the dead and bring them again to the place where they once burned so feverishly.
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