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Old 07-09-2006, 02:24 PM
Curve. (Offline)
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28th September 2005.

“Write”, they tell me. So I do.


I stay up all hours of the night. I type until my fingers are sliding over the keys and my palms are drugged and dependent on the plastic below the spacebar. I stare at this screen until my head weighs heavier than the Eiffel tower and my eyes plead in vain for me to pack my body up for the night. I push until my shoulders ache and the pain creeps down my arm and back. I write and write and write and it’s like a disease, you know.

Write.

What is it, to write? Really, what on earth does it mean to write? I’m sitting here with messy hair and tired stockings and these words are pouring into my fingertips and they just come out. I’m not even thinking, all I’m doing is uncorking that fifty-year old wine bottle, and I can only hope that by the end of whatever this is, somebody gets drunk. I’ve crammed in essays like that woman who lost her waistline forty-five Thursdays ago – I’ve been jamming theories and quotation marks and page numbers into my jeans. But at the end of the day, my writing is bunk – a sorry plea for a grade that’ll maybe inch me towards a Bachelor of Arts in – oh, the irony. English, Text and Writing.

Write.

See to me, writing is oxygen. It’s not a bunch of pretty letters that are expensive enough to buy you a one-way ticket into the academic discourse community – it’s life – life in every angle, every corner, every black and white and shade of gray in between. It’s what keeps you going when the blisters on your feet are enough to make you wrench your eyes shut. It’s the voice of absurdity when logic threatens to take full control. I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it again - craziness comes only to those truly blessed.

Alright, screw this. Let’s get personal. Writing’s more than a therapy session. Writing is what makes me cry when I’m dry enough to shrivel up and murder. Writing is what makes me laugh when I’m shattering into a million pieces and writing dares me to look the mirror in the eye and shove a jagged piece into my chest. To write is to carve out a part of yourself in order to maybe – just maybe – up the chances of your lifespan. To write is to expose you in all nakedness, in all imperfection. To write is to throw yourself in front of a speeding bullet and to write… to write is to scream those whispers that you’ve branded your name upon.

It’s not a choice. You are a writer. You will wail and mourn like a mother in labour until your fingers produce what your entire being wants to express. Your eyes will sting every time you blink and your ligaments will tremble with fever, and your lungs will be clogged up until you release. To write – to write is to release.

Don’t you see? There is no boundary to writing, save the ones you place upon yourself. There is nothing out of reach and if you must write, write. “Write while the heat is in you. The writer who postpones the recording of his thoughts uses an iron which has cooled to burn a hole with. He cannot inflame the minds of his audience.” Thoreau was right. Write. Write. Write because you must. Write because when you write, you are as alive, as brilliant and cruel and blinding as the sun. Scorch breaths and stain perceptions – write what your insides are working for. See, we’re all clockwork. We’re complicated, intricate pieces that have two hands and a sense of time. And if we don’t grab it – if we lose that inspiration –

It will die.

Don’t let it go. Seize the inspiration before your pen is parched. IF YOU MUST WRITE, WRITE. You know it is more than words. It is you.

Sit down. Take time. Find that line between want and need and dive right in with all you have, and fly.

Soar into fresh air. When you fly, you will breathe.

Baby, here’s the thing, see. If you feel it – if you are burnt by inspiration and if you sense and experience so much that it is leaking out of every curve of letter, every seat on that train of thought – you have already written, long before your fingers touched anything.

“Write”, they tell me. So I do.

Not because they tell me. I’ll be honest with you – I didn’t hear their voices until afterwards. I wrote because I was burning, and my scars were the only things that could mark the paper.

Breathe.

I don’t want to land, yet.

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Old 07-12-2006, 02:21 PM
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Awesome!!!!!!! the closest thing I've ever read that describes the yearning and desire that a writer has. So expressive and thoughtful. I love it. the fourht paragraph is my favorite. Thanks for sharing a piece of your soul. It's simply beautiful.
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Old 07-12-2006, 02:29 PM
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Mmm, this was very nice, Curve!

There were a few things that made me furrow my brow, I guess in confusion or puzzlement:
heavier than the Eiffel tower
This was kind of an odd comparison and really jumped out at me as kind of a sore thumb. Maybe something that is thought of as top-heavy? If you keep it, capitalize tower.
tired stockings
??
when I’m dry enough to shrivel up and murder
Again, this comparison didn't seem like the right one - but, then again, I, of course, can't think of something better.

all I’m doing is uncorking that fifty-year old wine bottle, and I can only hope that by the end of whatever this is, somebody gets drunk.
Probably my favorite line.

One other thing, I don't mind a few dashes here and there, but these were a little too abundant in my opinion. I'd make some of them commas.
Also, the all-caps sentence doesn't need to be in all caps. I think it'd look more professional if it were normal.

Thanks for sharing!
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Old 07-13-2006, 01:25 PM
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Ah true to your name Icarus, you have just becomne my favorite writer-as well as my favorite mythological figure. I loved this piece, I was going try and read it last night but had no time.

I'll comment more in depth later, but this was beautiful, absolutely beautiful!



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Old 07-13-2006, 02:06 PM
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Originally Posted by TillDusk
Ah true to your name Icarus, you have just becomne my favorite writer-as well as my favorite mythological figure. I loved this piece, I was going try and read it last night but had no time.

I'll comment more in depth later, but this was beautiful, absolutely beautiful!



-Tilldusk
I think you're getting your authors mixed up. Though I'd love to take credit, these words all belong to Curve.
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