From writing before anything else.
Make no mistake, this is not the nth (bad) argument for an act of writing that precedes life, the hours that follow, are similar, again. No one finding of a superiority of writing about life, hackneyed theme, false addition ... in everyday writing is one point among others: work, eat, write and then go to bed ; some, a transcendent conscious of the legitimate and crushes them, put the writing on top of their life as a flag (another!), it is neither my desire nor my intention.
Looking more closely at the act of writing, I wondered what we could remove him without harming it. I immediately thought of the story, the plot. To the question, is it necessary to write a story? My answer is definitely not. A second accessory I have also appeared extremely fickle: to convey the message, idea or theory to defend that which equips it with a fiction that yawns a bit in the corners or go small. It should not be said that writing fiction is mixed to defend causes or demolish the ideas, the image does it with more force and without ambivalence that words trail behind them like a bad conscience.
Last pitfall: the current, all fees that just came out, some still war crisp, two or three scarves to Islam clear, confessions of a restyled head of state on return or a repentant pedophile. These books are miasma, they relate to writing that evokes qu'entretiennent sewer pipes with a clear source. Words in service and held function do the dirty work spokesman, denied speech the next day by another "highlight", speech dying before standing. It is necessary that the writing is as if the word has its place, frequent the shallows of thought!
We leave these false pretenses so that only serve as evidence of bad phrasemongers. And against all the reasons that I could rely on claims that writing does not need reasons. And we do not talk about the inspiration that should flow like a beneficent and unpredictable source. If need to write will wait for the right of this hysterical, the wait would be long gold of time.
My feeling, as modest as singular, is that writing is born of a desire for words, "write" is rooted in a crucial gap: desert of the page or screen, ignorance of being challenged to write. Being full written poorly. When the emotion carries or freezes, that the words rush in his head, battalion tidy, this creature is no longer master of what he writes. It darkens the pages, it can even get to finish a book, he does not write.
is to join a vacuum of ignorance that everything is at stake. Malaise brewing ... .. a kind of confused disarray. Seated at my table, I pitched a little: no subject, no connection, nothing to say. In fact I did not say but write. In the silence of others, when they finally cease their vile talk, their words are dispersed by the wind window, finally returns to silence as the least bad solution. That's when white page stands, accomplice of nothing to cross, seeming to tell him who wrote: "You're not alone, I'm equally." The other shrugs shoulders through the eternal: "I have nothing to say, nothing to write either," yet he goes to the first line, the first word. This one, cracked in the night match, illuminates his fingers, leaving his life in the shadows. The man goes, he does not know. It will notice when behind him, walked the path will be enough! He started writing, not too fast to avoid tripping or too slowly so the match does not go out on the road, burning his fingers, sometimes the heart.
Writing, exercise deprivation is based solely on itself. Neither news conciliatory ride or fiction to disguise, no posterity awaits the man who wrote, in his essential emptiness, he help of words to stand up.
0 comments:
Post a Comment