for the last couple of days, i’ve been mulling over a question posed by the lovely Aisling Weaver.  well, i think it’s sort of a two-parter, really.

“How do you write?” and, “How are people represented in your thoughts and memory?” (please be advised that i am not only paraphrasing, but probably also butchering the original sense of the question in my normal fashion)

um…  chaotically.  i didn’t answer this in the comments on her original post because 1) i’m not hugely sure myself (though, as you’ll see, the act of writing this down actually helped me get my thoughts in some sort of order, though not that much order, if i’m honest – just slightly more ordered than they were before), and 2) i make a lot of noise, but that’s generally all there is – noise.  nothing of substance that anyone else would find interesting, so i thought i’d avoid cluttering up Aisling’s blog and keep it here.  kind of a whisper in the corner, if you like (see the bit in today’s other post about sitting quietly on the periphery).

there have been so many really interesting answers to this question, i urge you to go look at the original post and read the comments, since it’s fascinating to see how many different thought processes are involved in just thinking about and remembering those we know.  truly, no two people think exactly alike, and therefore each person’s thought patterns are as unique as their fingerprints.  the whole idea fills me with such joy.  but i gush.

i was going to say that i’m not a proper writer.  truly, i’m not.  i’m not a person that *has* to write.  that *has* to get the words out of her head.  it’s quite often a struggle.  my writing brain is kind of a vacuum.  it sucks and sucks and wants to have stuff to write, but there’s nothing there.  for me, it’s almost the act of writing itself, rather than the telling of a story, that holds the therapy.  that’s why i’m so prone to rambling.  it’s the same with talking.  christ, i can talk.  but did you ever hear the expression “The empty can rattles the most”?  that’s me.  mm-hmm.  in fact, it’s so fitting, i just had the mad urge to change the title of my blog to The Empty Can.  seriously.  i think it fits…

but i’m getting off topic.  see?  the above paragraph is utter tosh and completely unedited, yet it felt so good to write.  as a writer, i have no discipline, and no staying power, which is why i’m so prone to short forms.  instant gratification, my dears.  i am a small child in a woman’s body.

off topic again.

so, yeah.  my chaotic writing often will start with, literally, nothing.  there will be a void inside me that i feel the need to fill with words in order to close it.  it’s like the void becomes a vacuum, and the vacuum sucks whateverthefuck it can out of the ether.  the words travel from the ether, through the void, and come out of the other side vaguely coherent, and kind of pull the void closed behind them.  is this making any sense?  because it’s made my eyes fill with tears.

yup, feeling sorry for myself again.

meh.

well – that’s how most of the short stuff tends to happen, anyway.  the longer stuff tends to happen under rather specialised conditions, i.e. NaNoWriMo, so i suppose that doesn’t really count for the purposes of answering this question.  when that minor miracle of me having something vagiely story-shaped floaing around in my bain happens, it tends to be different again.  here’s how i explained it on my previous blog:

imagine a windy day.  there is a girl, standing on a bright and grassy hillside.  for some reason, she has long, dark hair, a slender, willowy build, and beautiful, creamy skin.  in her hands, she holds a long, long strip of red chiffon, a couple of feet wide.  she is holding this chiffon by the corners of one end, and it is the unwritten story.  it is fluttering and weaving sinuously in the wind.  as i  write the story, the words i put onto the page gradually appear on the edges of the chiffon as stones the colour of the sky, weighing it to the ground along its length.  the end of the chiffon continues to dance in the wind, but the story as it is written, it gradually lays down a red path on the hillside, and the dancing portion becomes less and less until i finally write “The End”.

er…  you may have gathered that i like to write short stuff with a heavy dose of metaphor, too.  i can’t help it.  i heart metaphor. and simile.  but mainly metaphor.

as for how people inhabit my brain?  well…  kinda chaotic again, really.  i’ll often remember a physical feature, and an associated feel.  kind of like a psychological sense, made up of …  gosh, i don’t know how to explain it.  it’s almost literally like a sense of touch (i’m very tactile), but a non-physical one?  um…  kind of a synaesthetic sense.  for instance, the poor lady who inspired this confused and rather self-indulgent ramble-and-whine fest, Aisling, exists in my mind as a beautiful wide smile, laughter, and a sense of soft warmth.  now i come to think of it, she’s kinda like a psychological hug, that woman.  in fact, the more i think about it, the more i realise that my favourite people all seem to exist in my mind as a smile and/or laugh, and a sense of warmth.  all tinged with their own personal colouring.  if it’s someone on Twitter whose face i’ve never seen, the colours will be those most prevelant in their avi.  but, yeah – psychological hugs all.  and for people i’m not so keen on?  wow – i think this might actually be going somewhere coherent!  they exist as a negative facial expression – a frown. or a scowl, or a sour pursing of the lips.  again, all tinged with their own personal pallette.

fuckin’ weird!  O.o

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