Coffee Table Declarations
Friday, November 21, 2003
O.K., some of you have expressed interest in reading what I wrote for the contest. You can read it, but if you hate it, don't bother telling me because I already entered it.
Here it is:
I cannot remember a time when I was not captivated by words. My favorite childhood memory is of my mother, or sometimes my father, sitting on the couch, my brother and I nestled close on either side, and a stack of books piled high on the coffee table in front of us. This was our bedtime ritual, and reading before bed is a tradition I hold sacred to this day. From my parents I learned to respect the written word.
I don’t remember learning to read, I just remember reading. I was a natural at it. I devoured anything I could get my hands on and almost from the same moment, I sensed in myself a strong urge to write. I composed dozens of short stories, but nothing ever fully satisfied me. It has always felt like something is just beyond my reach.
I have kept thousands of notebooks through the years. I have several now in various stages of filled up pages. These notebooks contain my thoughts, philosophical musings, beginnings of poems, stories, memoirs and a million false starts. Sometimes just a sentence or phrase is written with the intention of expanding upon it later. I love the physical act of putting pen to paper. I will use any excuse to write a list and I abhor abbreviations. I love the idea that I can pluck something from my mind and send it forth into the world. If I have a blank page in front of me and a pen in my hand I feel a jolt of excitement. It is a moment full of possibility. The blank page could be filled with anything – a meaningful sonnet, a prizewinning manuscript. I know that these things are inside of me. But therein lies my problem.
The best writing inside of me hits me when I am not looking for it, nor expecting it. I could be sitting at work, taking a walk, running errands, or drifting off to sleep and all of a sudden, there it will be, out of nowhere. The most amazing string of words ever imagined. And just as suddenly it’s gone. Even if I can remember it to write it down later, it has lost it’s magic by then. Sometimes I wish I could tape record my thoughts as they happen. I feel as though as soon as I try to slow them down enough to write them out, I lose my momentum.
My greatest challenge as a writer has been to attempt to seize hold of the swirling words that flow incessantly in my mind. I know that if only I could learn to harness their power then I would be free. I have something to say and I have always known this. It is something meaningful and important and has never been said in quite the same way before. And I will say it, just as soon as I figure out how.
Here it is:
I cannot remember a time when I was not captivated by words. My favorite childhood memory is of my mother, or sometimes my father, sitting on the couch, my brother and I nestled close on either side, and a stack of books piled high on the coffee table in front of us. This was our bedtime ritual, and reading before bed is a tradition I hold sacred to this day. From my parents I learned to respect the written word.
I don’t remember learning to read, I just remember reading. I was a natural at it. I devoured anything I could get my hands on and almost from the same moment, I sensed in myself a strong urge to write. I composed dozens of short stories, but nothing ever fully satisfied me. It has always felt like something is just beyond my reach.
I have kept thousands of notebooks through the years. I have several now in various stages of filled up pages. These notebooks contain my thoughts, philosophical musings, beginnings of poems, stories, memoirs and a million false starts. Sometimes just a sentence or phrase is written with the intention of expanding upon it later. I love the physical act of putting pen to paper. I will use any excuse to write a list and I abhor abbreviations. I love the idea that I can pluck something from my mind and send it forth into the world. If I have a blank page in front of me and a pen in my hand I feel a jolt of excitement. It is a moment full of possibility. The blank page could be filled with anything – a meaningful sonnet, a prizewinning manuscript. I know that these things are inside of me. But therein lies my problem.
The best writing inside of me hits me when I am not looking for it, nor expecting it. I could be sitting at work, taking a walk, running errands, or drifting off to sleep and all of a sudden, there it will be, out of nowhere. The most amazing string of words ever imagined. And just as suddenly it’s gone. Even if I can remember it to write it down later, it has lost it’s magic by then. Sometimes I wish I could tape record my thoughts as they happen. I feel as though as soon as I try to slow them down enough to write them out, I lose my momentum.
My greatest challenge as a writer has been to attempt to seize hold of the swirling words that flow incessantly in my mind. I know that if only I could learn to harness their power then I would be free. I have something to say and I have always known this. It is something meaningful and important and has never been said in quite the same way before. And I will say it, just as soon as I figure out how.
