the Conduit by Which it is Expressed

Some people might say that the author is at the core of the writing, that the story is some nebulous mass that floats about on all sides. From the view of the middle the author can twist and turn to see about himself, but can never hope to see everything at the same time.

Early philosophers thought this way about our Earth.

I would venture that at the core of writing is the story, and that it is the author that floats about at the edges. The author moves, seeing the thing that is the story from different perspectives, describing it in different ways much like the blind men and the elephant.

Thinking this way, I'd like to hope that what I am looking at, what I am indeed the spectator of, is my own life, that it is from this that I draw my fiction, write my pictures.

A subtle shift brings about shadows that were not there before, and declares new details to be described.

But why do I do it? Why do I insist on scribbling these scenes upon pieces of paper or plastered in pixels across this scene?

I could say that I have to, need to; that if I keep it all pent up inside me I might suffer a meltdown of expression. I may also blame my muse, should she exist, but I'm not one to shift blame to scapegoats.

Instead, the issue rests on my own shoulders, and on the innate desire of the human race to tell tales, spin stories, and fantasize in fiction. I can explore things that I would otherwise have no hope of seeing through my writing, be it accurate or not, and poke and prod at my own self. I'm sure the psychology students next door would have some sort of meta- word to describe this, but the label is unimportant to me: I am fixated on the action, the rush.

And so in a roundabout way I come back to the core, the idea that my own story is at the centre of my fiction. My experience works its way into my productions of prose, whether I like it or not, and my writing will always have an impact on the way I think. But, as others have said before me, writing is a personal thing; it would seem obvious, as my personal life rests shelled in the centre.

So I, too, use a name. Regardless of the fact that I use it for many purposes apart from penning my thoughts, I still hide behind it. The same reason holds when I throw about the name Jack, but that's another story, quite literally.

To answer the question, What is writing to me?, I fall back on an answer I gave months ago, when first joining the site: writing causes me to create what was there before in a new manner; I am merely the conduit by which it is expressed.

Time to pass the torch, no?

Cheers,

Jack.

The End

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