Writing, I think, is not apart from living. Writing is a kind of double living. The writer experiences everything twice. Once in reality and once in that mirror which waits always before or behind. ~Catherine Drinker Bowen, Atlantic, December 1957
Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia. ~E.L. Doctorow
I’m beginning to acknowledge the part of myself who authors this blog as a “writer,” albeit a novice. Like a painter-wanna-be who splashes a few colors around on a canvas and calls it art because he did it with passion, I feel I’ve earned myself the title of “writer” simply because I write. Certainly there are much more talented writers than I, but I receive enough polite encouragement to keep plugging away at it, day after day.
I’m also a talker. A big talker. My grandfather’s affectionate nickname for me as a child was “Motor Mouth.” Writing is an extended form of talking for me. I can say what I like, taking a little time to tweak the words a bit, and not be interrupted in the process. Blogging makes it all even more wonderful, as I have an imaginary audience who actually cares about what I have to say – in my mind, that is. Yes, I have fooled myself into believing that some people do actually read this crap.
Maybe I provide entertainment for professionals in the field of psychology, or at least an interesting case study.
I write, because it helps me sort my thoughts that whirl inside my head like a cyclone. I write, because the thoughts have nowhere else to go. I write, because I have to.
Every time I write about something I’m feeling or thinking, all the associated crap that’s renting room inside my head has a place to rest, within the words on the page, and my mind is freed up to obsess about other things.
And so it goes.