I am going to drop some brain diarrhea here. Bare with me. Or don't.
For those who do not know, I fancy myself as a story Teller. A story Teller who is in the process of teaching himself how to write. In my life, I have gathered a little collection of situations and happenings, both of-my-hand and as an idle witness. I really enjoy telling, embellishing on, and putting my own spin on these events. Crafting them into the way I interpret or interpreted them when they were experienced. I see words as my favorite medium to transfer ideas from my head to the functioning world. Better than paint, better than elephant dung, better than fired clay. I like to slap words together to represent concepts I find relevant, and wrap the mess into a story blanket to make it less preachy.
I do this to get the crap out of my head.
And if anyone else enjoys it, then that is just more Bailey’s in my coffee. Friggin’ sweet.
But telling stories is very different from writing, which requires a high level of technical skill. A story can be accidentally funny, or anecdotally interesting… but if written correctly, can be a brilliant piece with almost immeasurable depth and limitless interpretation (think: The Old Man and the Sea, or… The Stranger). A well-written story has a life of its own, far beyond the source event(s) or the intent of the writer. The trinkety story beneath the writing becomes as multi-faceted as it is in the mind of the Teller.
Yes, that sounds cheesy as fuck, but you must admit, it really is an interest goal for a simple story teller to set his mind to: words as art. Shit… that’s crazy talk!
Yup.
In an attempt to work toward my goal (actually writing something, instead of just outlining plots, only to get distracted, and then blogging about –yet- another drunken escapade out here on the interweb instead), I intend to try and put whatever creative juju I have into whole-assed writing. If I am to ever learn how to write, I imagine it will require every remaining mental resource at my disposal.
That is to say, that whatever I post here in the coming months will more than likely be pieces of things I am working on. Stories which I feel warrant being written. So, if you only come here to bathe in bad grammar and tales of drunken idiocy, feel free to delete me from your favorites, or remove my link from your page. Bygones.
That’s right. This blog might be turning into the same ol’ writer hack bullshit that you see out here in blogworld. If you are like me, then you hate the stink of it all.
“Hi! Welcome to Shanda’s Magical Writing Blog! OMG I luuuurve writing! LMFAOFODEEEFEI!!! When I get bigger, I am going to write like Sex and The City!”
I support anyone looking to express themselves. Everyone has an itch to scratch, a Black Beauty that they're searching for. But if I simply dwell in hackery (OMFG NO!), then I promise to shoot "the writing horse" before it pisses me off with its inceasant limping.
I already have a job and shit. No need to cram a square peg in a circle hole.
Again, I cannot stress this enough: I’m not claiming to be a writer. Yet. I’m a story Teller. A Teller who wishes to polish it up a bit, and do what every human being on this planet (worth their salt) should be doing: make an effort to transform his life experiences into something meaningful (even if he fails).
And I will be practicing. Here. And I will welcome any and all critique, unless you’re a dick, in which case I will ignore you like I ignore the whimpers of my battered liver.
Word. Words. Worded Words. sWords.
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3 comments:
You get a lot of comments and feedback with your current voice. That means people like it.
I see no reason to totally switch off the crazy story telling and focus on more carefully crafted posts. I come here because you post often, and write the way you speak. I probably enjoy listening to you almost as much as you do :)
So if people read you because they're parched and thirsty for entertaining reads, you might want to reconsider the switch from water to wine. Or maybe offer both.
I don't know. I just don't know what to think of all the blogocidal tendencies I'm seeing lately.
I am not intending to deny anyone their entertainment. But at the same time, I feel that I might be using up all my time writing blogs that don't really tell the kind of stories that I imagine in my head. That's all.
The stories I "invent" will be riddled with the same water you mention. But hopefully, there will be more of a meaning behind them. I just prefer to produce wine. Bygones.
Of course, the semblence to real situations will be played down in my works of "fiction".
Word.
Fuck I'm drunk. Friday fucking kills me. Even when I try to be good. Damn.
If that last comment makes no sense, it is because I was totally hammered when I tried to type it.
Christ...
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