I spoke on the phone with my father today and at one point mentioned this blog. He had forgotten about it because of my long hiatus from writing. Immediately, I sensed that I should have kept quiet about it, as it may may disturb those close to me, especially if their beliefs differ from mine.
A few hours later, Mom emailed to ask for the url to my blogsite. I dithered for a while, sensing perhaps that this might be a stumbling block because of a self-conscious doubt that previously led me to write about things I cared little about, or when I wrote humour just to show that I could be clever with words, without taking any risks, staying within my realm of safety. But this type of writing loses its flavour quickly. I'd rather take the risk! So I sent the url with an accompanying warning.
I started writing poetry by accident, when I read a lyric or two from a young musician I know. It triggered a thought and 15 minutes later I had something on paper. Though the poem would surely be considered the work of an amateur, I was amazed at how quickly the thoughts entered my head, creating a chain reaction to make Oppenheimer proud. The pen seemed connected directly to my mind, as if no fingers were needed to do the deed. At first, I thought this was a fluke. But the next time I sat down to write the same thing happened. This has been borne out now over a few poems, the main body of which is usually completed in 30 minutes or less.
For the simple virtue of honesty contained within, and nothing more, I can now say that this is, to date, my best writing. It's only been a few weeks, so I believe it will mature, yet hopefully not mellow. I've received some very kind remarks, while others have gone completely silent or even questioned if something is wrong with me. This brings a wry smile to my face. It is to be expected, if only because it challenges many notions about me, built up over time, which may be negative or positive in nature. It certainly isn't what people are used to, no matter what light they previously saw me in.
All of this is not to say that this poetry is especially good; I have absolutely no idea of format. I've never studied the subject. Yet, what I've found in years of reading is that my favourite authors seemed not to consider what the reader would think; to do otherwise would make the endeavour seem contrived. When a book has any goal other than the author's desire to express something, it starts to sound like a sales pitch, although some are more clever than others at the art of disguise. I've discarded many a book upon finding even the slightest intonation of dishonesty. It doesn't take much.
As I stated previously, all of the work to date has been banged out in a matter of minutes; I've often re-read them after posting and thought, "I should have kept from posting that one for a bit longer.", in order to fine-tune it. But it's exciting to write this! The urge to hit the "Publish" button is very strong, so please forgive my childish self-indulgence.
I haven't received much feedback on my writing. Maybe I never will. But I derive a deep sense of satisfaction in knowing that, whatever the quality, these exact words have never been written before, making this 100 percent mine.
