The Need to Write, Set to Devotchka

herocious

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Look, to be honest, I like some popular music. That’s right, I like some popular music,

and not just like,

but LIKE SO MUCH that whenever a special song comes on the radio, I suddenly feel an urge to write with fury,

love,

youth,

and levity,

as opposed to gravity.

Not just write a word, a sentence, a story; not a novel, a poem, an essay, but an urge

to write everything that lives and breathes and dies inside of me.

A truly comprehensive dissection of my inner minutia.

An exhaustive transcription of my inside self.

That’s the only kind of writing I find myself wanting to write on a daily basis.

The kind that digs at the heart of matter.

The kind that exposes and leaves nothing unturned.

But I rarely, if ever, succeed. It’s so elusive, so temporary, so premature,

this sudden feeling to write with fury, love, youth, and levity.

That’s right, this feeling,

which is the most noble feeling in the world,

only lasts as long as the special song sounds, and then

it’s over,

silenced,

poof!

Like right now, to be honest, the special song that got me writing in the first place has just ended.

The radio plays a different tune, one that does not do it for me,

one that does not have what it takes to milk me of my creativity.

The special song left me with high expectations.

Where do I go from here? How is it possible to continue writing when my immediate source of inspiration has left me,

effectively aborting this three-minute pregnancy?

I feel cheated, empty, hollow, like a man stripped of his pen,

left only with his ream of paper full of the most divine form ink can take,

and yet this ream is

incomplete,

malformed,

miscarried.

Like the birth of a child that will never mature.

That’s what popular music has given me,

so many bad births.

Ugh.

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Praytell:

how will my writing grow in a world of three-minute pop songs?

::Keep it locked on TOE::

November 11, 2009 7:08 pm

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