wet inking in swiltering heat
Free writing. 'Wet ink' writing. That's what I'm hoping to do. Just key in words without premeditation and anxieties about how I will sound. Hell, in authentic free writing, spelling, grammar, and punctuation (much less capitalisation and UK vs US "ou" and "z/s") shouldn't even matter. What's of critical importance is capturing thoughts and impressions as they flit through the consciousness, and pinning them down with puny, paltry words... worse, in a small digital rectangular pad at that!
So this is a sample of modified wet ink writing. I dunno if the writers using the stream-of-consciousness method originally used this and accidentally discovered a seminal literary technique. Most probably. But novels written in that technique were certainly more disciplined than mere loose writing! At any rate, the point is I'm getting along fairly well in this exercise (which is much like a diarrhea of the mind--no discipline, no style). A vast improvement from the usual excruciating practice of agonising over every word, every phrase, every order. It's not like I'd be even remotely like Flaubert with his chasing of the "le mot juste" but you get the idea--old habits die hard.
So in this exercise I am not supposed to stop. Just keep on with whatever I'm thinking. Like brainstorming for topics. Except that:
1. at the back of my head, I know I'm probably going to press publish because--what the hell--this is my blog after all. And,
2. it's difficult to "capture" every idea because the truth is--two or three thoughts run simultaneously in one's mind all the time. That's normal. I have this thought--this one I'm currently typing right now--at the forefront. But there's another much less defined one about where I am at the moment--the stuff that come through my senses--how noisy, warm, colorful it is here... how I so want to go to the bathroom but I can't because this writing exercise has to go on unstopped for a set time.
That's two thoughts already. And then there's a third one sitting at the back row of this drive--memories, flashes, jolts. Like the way I remember what Chichi said about writing. The problem. You think of a great topic that you just have to write about. But it often comes to you at a very inopportune moment. When. You. Just. Can't. Write. (You're in the shower. You're running/walking/eating/making love/buying eggs... it's a relentless onslaught of bad timing.) And the next time you do get a chance to sit and compose, the spectacular subject has escaped you and you want to write about something else altogether.
Like the way I wanted to write about two chance encounters I had one night that somehow had a strange synchronicity. But almost half a month has passed and I still haven't. On a few occasions that I sat down to do so, my mind seemed to stagger stubbornly to different directions like a wayward tipsy lightweight.
And at this very moment... when I so want to write vignettes about the sights and sounds I'm soaking in right now--in this coffee shop, on a hot Tuesday afternoon, with my moroccan mint tea cooling and going bitter, and my typing finger getting stiff and achy, and my darling daughter scowling engrossed in her law books and notes...
And time's up! It's time to stop so I will... even if I left one sentence unfinished above. A mortal sin in my book. But this is an experiment. Probably quite a boring read. Yes. My humor is contrived. And my undisciplined mind is senseless. But you are free to harvest topics out of these ramblings...if you can find any.
So this is a sample of modified wet ink writing. I dunno if the writers using the stream-of-consciousness method originally used this and accidentally discovered a seminal literary technique. Most probably. But novels written in that technique were certainly more disciplined than mere loose writing! At any rate, the point is I'm getting along fairly well in this exercise (which is much like a diarrhea of the mind--no discipline, no style). A vast improvement from the usual excruciating practice of agonising over every word, every phrase, every order. It's not like I'd be even remotely like Flaubert with his chasing of the "le mot juste" but you get the idea--old habits die hard.
So in this exercise I am not supposed to stop. Just keep on with whatever I'm thinking. Like brainstorming for topics. Except that:
1. at the back of my head, I know I'm probably going to press publish because--what the hell--this is my blog after all. And,
2. it's difficult to "capture" every idea because the truth is--two or three thoughts run simultaneously in one's mind all the time. That's normal. I have this thought--this one I'm currently typing right now--at the forefront. But there's another much less defined one about where I am at the moment--the stuff that come through my senses--how noisy, warm, colorful it is here... how I so want to go to the bathroom but I can't because this writing exercise has to go on unstopped for a set time.
That's two thoughts already. And then there's a third one sitting at the back row of this drive--memories, flashes, jolts. Like the way I remember what Chichi said about writing. The problem. You think of a great topic that you just have to write about. But it often comes to you at a very inopportune moment. When. You. Just. Can't. Write. (You're in the shower. You're running/walking/eating/making love/buying eggs... it's a relentless onslaught of bad timing.) And the next time you do get a chance to sit and compose, the spectacular subject has escaped you and you want to write about something else altogether.
Like the way I wanted to write about two chance encounters I had one night that somehow had a strange synchronicity. But almost half a month has passed and I still haven't. On a few occasions that I sat down to do so, my mind seemed to stagger stubbornly to different directions like a wayward tipsy lightweight.
And at this very moment... when I so want to write vignettes about the sights and sounds I'm soaking in right now--in this coffee shop, on a hot Tuesday afternoon, with my moroccan mint tea cooling and going bitter, and my typing finger getting stiff and achy, and my darling daughter scowling engrossed in her law books and notes...
And time's up! It's time to stop so I will... even if I left one sentence unfinished above. A mortal sin in my book. But this is an experiment. Probably quite a boring read. Yes. My humor is contrived. And my undisciplined mind is senseless. But you are free to harvest topics out of these ramblings...if you can find any.
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