For me, writing is cheaper psycho-therapy than seeing a shrink, and more expansive*(*pun alert) say, than my time spent mowing the yard e.g., row 1.turn. row 2.turn. The sun shines, the weeds grow thick and frontal lobe cells languish in repeat step repeat, and I’ll likely feel a pressing need to gnash keys, combine words, n’ spit out gut-thought-seeds.
I write on everything about nothing, which mostly gets read by no one…
Sometimes I write well (that opine being consistent with some other less than critical reviewers), other times I vomit word-stream so putrid that it only makes sense to cover your face from forehead to chin. Sick re-word-gi-tate.
My writing appeals mainly to short-circuit deep thinkers with scrambled minds, broken homes, and bar room tans… or careful discriminating but criminally minded terminally ill nihilists. On steroids.
My fans are few but sometimes (almost never) accomplished in their own smallish nano-right. I write in my own unique style of letter-word-sentence arrangement, paying only partial attention to Crunk, Strunk, Bunk, and White; but giving full monty frontal wide-awake alerts to my self-indulgent pat-myself-on-the-back preferences.
But seriously, if you don’t like that… well, you cannot imagine the immensity of the FUCK I do not give…
For example, I doubt Websters would/could appreciate my habit of making up spellings (usually to mimic a soundbite or regional dialect) or habit of changing the meanings of old words or defining new ones. Nope, there’ll be no Websty Award for me, dadgummit.
Still, I like to think the reasons I have invented for breaking long standing literary rules are quite sufficient.
Sometimes… I produce great ideas meshed with poor execution, and some not-so-good filling of gaps like the word-dental version of a white bondo, porcelain toof (see?), and a LB Sambo sandwich. Toof Gap-age (see?). Yeah, somewhat akin to going to the Dentist to have a tooth pulled, but then tripping on a magazine rack busting your front teeth out on the dental lounger upon arrival. Ouch. Ma’ teef…
But, occasionally… when Moon and Stars align and idea+ experience+ cool writing utensil create that unnatural dance of transcendent clarity… a rolling freewavemason moment… I can write with my inner voice… and when it gels cohesively… I could paint a master word-piece considered by many as timeless, sacred and profane. Though I tend to write these gems on the backs of used envelopes, too easily lost in the trash bin… Still, these… are… rare writing moments that I indulge in and enjoy…
I suspect it feels like… a Stephan Curry cross-over dribble half-backstep let fly nuttin’ but string music THREE, from Ghirardelli Square! Or something.
And all that… as the clock ticks to zero. Swish. Game. Next.
Flow… Flow is why I write. Flow is… what it is and why.
The great undiscovered lurks, awaiting literary genius to be realized.
To be read.
The other stuff I made up but sounds pseudo-impressive. Or ridiculous.
All I ask is to be read, and hopefully get a little honest feedback, even if it hurts my sensitive soul … cau’ I respects truth and love, but I despises their nemesis’, the lying hater (and no, it’s not Hillary Clinton though she’s trending).