A couple of nights ago, just before I drifted off to a nap, I had a thought that knocked my socks off. It was amazing, and I knew that I should write it down. But I was tired, and drifting to sleep. It was one of those thoughts that seemed like it would last, that surely I would remember it, and easily, once awake.
Normally, I know better than that. I should know better than that, by now. Some of the most exciting thoughts that passed through my head were lost because I failed to write them down in time, before my puzzling memory would turn the thought out, and retrieving it would prove impossible. Yes, this thought was forgotten, much like many others that preceded it.
Of course, the possibility that these thoughts might not be so great has occurred on more than one occasion. Especially such instances as the one the other night, when drowsiness is quickly yielding to outright sleep. Maybe I was delirious? After all, my discipline for these things is not always so lax, and I used to keep the notebook on me, or by my side even in bed, all of the time. Sometimes, I remembered to write these brilliant thoughts before drifting off to sleep. On those occasions when I awoke and could actually read whatever I wrote (not a given, admittedly, even when fully awake), more often than not, the results were disappointing. The brilliant thoughts of nighttime dreaming proved quite pedestrian in the harsh light of day. Almost as an extra added insult, I can almost always remember the excitement I felt at the time that such a thought pops into my head, and this was the insult added to the injury. It would mock me when I read my lines and realized that this thought was far from inspiring or brilliant. This strange memory of mine would also mock me, for that matter, when I failed to remember the thought, to boot! In other words, I would not remember the thought, but I would remember thinking that the thought seemed utterly brilliant! That can be pretty frustrating, to put it mildly.
The same can be said of these blog entries. Some of them feel good, feel right, as I write them. I dare say some of them even are good (but I am hardly the most impartial of judges, now, am I?), and take me in new directions contrary to the one I was expecting to go in. Writing, and creating something in general, often can do that, of course.
Then, there are those blog entries where I do not know what I am talking about, and seem to be writing one just for the sake of writing. Times like these are a struggle. Times when I find myself combing through my mind, seeing if there is anything there worth jotting down, worth working on, trying to craft and then edit and shape up enough to actually put in such a format as this, where it can be shared and read by others (always assuming, of course, that anyone is reading these - never a given).
Perhaps, they are cyclical, like everything seems to be. Perhaps, certain thoughts or writings have their season, and going back to rehash them after the inspiration is dry seems a little like raking dead leaves from a dead season and enjoying a warm, Indian Summer day, pretending that it is still summer. With less leaves on the trees, there is something missing, and no matter how much you might be able to convince yourself otherwise, the harsh reality underneath it all is that the cold and icy breath of Old Man Winter is nearing. Once these thoughts, and the initial burst of inspiration that gave birth to it, are gone, most likely so is the opportunity of ever being able to make something truly worthy out of it.
Writing, just like everything else in life, takes work. It takes commitment. It takes more than that, even. It takes editing - a process that I personally have never been particularly strong or adept at. It takes a lot to write, and even more to complete a writing, so that an outside audience, be it of one or one million, is ready to read it, at least in the eyes of most authors.
Yet, here I am this morning, largely winging it. Not having done much editing on this, not having expected to write this much about lost thoughts and the act of translating that into a coherent written piece. You never know where this thing will take you. That, of course, if the beauty of the arts, not least of all writing.
By now, I wanted to write a review on this book that I have been reading for quite some time now. It is "A Thousand Splendid Suns", by Khaled Hosseini, the same author who wrote "The Kite Runner", which was made into a major motion picture not all that long ago.
Instead, I offer what amounts to what is popularly known in our society as a "bitch session", going off about losing thoughts and then struggling to remember them (few tactics actually ever help, it seems). Often once remembered, the prove disappointing by their impotence. If not, they can prove troublesome if they are difficult to work with, as some ideas and thoughts can be, even when they are remembered. They often do not fit nearly as well in practice as they did in your imagination, tired or not.
Still, I feel blessed to actually have such thoughts to get excited about, and feel that my writing abilities are a blessing. I say this with a sense of humility, and nothing resembling arrogance. The thoughts sometimes flow through me, and the words seem to come to me, as often as not. It might not last, but I am appreciative when they do.
Oh, and I did actually manage to remember the thought, and am trying to work it into my work now, even as I write this.
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