A Writer's Response

Writers see everything. There is always much to discuss, too much, in fact, after something has just happened. And yet, the writer is quiet, as everywhere else, all around, there is outcry. He or she is in need of time; to ingest and process. Writers tell their stories to themselves inside of their heads over and over again as they reflect and revise, reviewing past occurrences, conjuring up fantastical forward thinking possibilities that are endless, forming loose associations with their own present perspective, that can be all encompassing, though not necessarily reactive or related to any facts that have been presented that are relevant to the story at hand. Their minds are simultaneously keen and hazy, as thought after thought after thought passes through. Mature writers tells their stories only to themselves at first, for they have failed too many times before, in speaking them; a waste of good energy. Often, embarrassing, too. It is a writer’s hope that he or she will hold onto the vigor of occurrence, harness, redirect and infuse life into a work of art, that you might read and enjoy. Something has just happened. In those first moments to follow, writers will not know what form their story will take, only that there is a story there, one worth being told. That is why the immediate, responsive, verbal conveyance of subject matter at hand for writers first, speakers second, is rarely eloquent, and often disjointed. The story is not yet eloquent to the writer; the mind, laden with imagery; snippets of occurrence and light speed possibility, flashing. The subject matter is not yet clear. Readers, please standby for abridged version.