Stream of conscious. Free association. It's been a while since I've visited these as exercises. Just write. Don't stop to think about punctuation. Don't backspace over anything (this one I have trouble with), even if it's a simple typo. Write the feeling of a gray and endless afternoon without stopping to think of why this is what has popped into your head. The endless, repetition. Monotony. Why has the world turned into what we saw today. What we heard and felt and don't want to know today. The sky has turned a lovely shade of who knows what because the curtains are closed and the night is still.
Accept that ninety percent of what will show up on your screen will be worthless. It's crap. Don't kid yourself. It's like the beautiful monologues that pop into your head when you lie down at night. Those melodramatic, moving speeches that in the moment seem so perfect. They're not. For the ten percent that will yield a nugget that you can work with, the exercise is enough.
So help you Snookie if the Jersey Shore makes an appearance (I'm now mildly embarrassed). Better redeem yourself with something intellectual. But the brain waves ebb in stubborn rhythm. The mind is a nasty set of breakers where the subconscious crashes on the rocks. The cursor blinks. Have I done enough?
No comments:
Post a Comment