Exasperation

I am deeply dissatisfied with that last posting (my 'comeback,' if you will), and was so as I was writing it; this much in the same way that I was dissatisfied with many of my previous postings and for much the same reason, which is that they got out of hand.

What tends to happen is this: I sit down with a distinct idea in my head of what I wish to write and - to a less distinct extent - how I want to write it. I also usually entertain some silly ideas about how long it's going to take me to transfer this idea from inside my brain onto the digital page. The moment I begin writing, that little control is lost and the process takes on a life - and a set of rules - of its own. I blame this on a lack of planning and a passion for rhetoric; I get caught up in the flow of semi-free writing and overweighted eloquence, and can only watch helplessly as the lines fill up and the clock ticks down. The longer I write, determined to conclude the thought but unable to bring that end about, the more frustrated I become and the more cohesion and style break down, until at last I'm left with a disappointing treatise and a lot of anger at time and effort wasted. This is not the way it should be.

Look, it's even happening now - the few thoughts I had led naturally to other thoughts and of course I had to fill in the blanks and smooth the transitions. But what I'm writing here is a blog, not a column, and I have neither the desire nor the time for substantial editing. I'll try to cut the flow off at the source.

It's not easy, that's for sure. It feels like there is a broken connection between mind and fingers, such that what is concise and pithy in potentia becomes bloated and overly verbose in actu (yes, no posting is complete without superfluous Aristotle references) I'm beginning to think that I made the mistake of surfing the wave of praise my tutors bestowed on my writing in college, resting on my laurels instead of pushing myself to become even better - this may explain why I never won any actual laurels, as opposed to others whose native writing talent may have been less (or not; how should I know?) but who no doubt were more invested in arcane concepts such as 'revision' and 'rewriting' (and probably 'research,' but that's another matter). Still, it's brevity more than quality with which I am primarily concerned, at least right now.

Writing more than asked for has always been something I do, and how - I remember a short story assignment in high school where the page count was maybe six or seven and my story was fourteen, and this is par for the course. I used to sneer off the very concept of a page limit, asserting (mentally at least) that a good writer wrote until he was done, and that was the right length. I realize now how arrogant this was, and also naive. Page count requirements always seemed to me more to be targeted towards under-performing students who would rather write less, but the truth is it works both ways. The ability to condense writing into a certain length is every bit as important as the ability to fill out what would otherwise be too short; indeed it is probably of even more value, requiring one to hone and trim excess poundage rather than add what might well be unnecessary fat.

Truth be told, my writing needs a personal trainer - someone to whip it into a lean, mean fighting machine that can take on all comers, rather than the merely decent contender it is now. Eloquence and vocabulary I have in spades; syntax and grammar are at my beck and call like good little peons; perhaps there is even a smattering of style, absorbed from the overflow of the truly skilled writers I have been privileged enough to read and then rip off. Brevity remains to be mastered (although not alone). If I can learn to be concise and simultaneously worth reading I'll really feel like I've gotten somewhere. Two things are certain: it won't be with this posting (long in composition once again), and the only way to bring it about is, as with writing generally and everything else, to practice.

I guess I'd better get cracking.