I’ve been spending a lot of time lately sorting through old papers and cleaning out files. In the process, I’ve come across a lot of random scraps of my own writing. Most of the time, I’m just tossing it all in one box for later processing. If you pause too long over every piece of paper, the pile will never diminish.
Before I toss the bits of my scratchings, though, I take a quick glance to see what sort of writing it is: fiction, blogpost, idea jottings, etc. Only if something really catches my eye will I stop long enough to actually read the text.
My favorite discoveries are those things apparently written in a fugue state. I have absolutely no memory of the actual writing, nor of the ideas or thought processes that generated it. It’s almost like it came from someone else.
It’s a little unnerving. Yes, I know I contain multitudes, but still it’s a tad disturbing when one of them leaves me detailed correspondence from the other world.
Sometimes writing is a bit like riding a wave. [That simile is strictly poetic—I’ve never been on a surfboard in my life.] You catch the exact moment through a combination of skill and luck, then just let the forces have their way with you until the energy is depleted and you’re washed onto shore with the driftwood.
I could use a cigarette.