Thots about writing

There are no rules. You have a blank page before you, and you can jot whatever you want. In fact, you don't even need a page or a pen: you could compose words in your mind, like Homer did. Or sire some children and go blind and have your daughters write down the verses that you dictate. 

Those first two examples that came to my mind authored what are known as epic poems; but I wanted to remind myself of the total freedom of this medium, so let me try to think of other forms...

Short stories... essays... novels... memoirs... automotive manuals... screenplays... holy scriptures... 

Say you're a person who wrote a speech for a U.S. president. (Many leaders hire speechwriters instead of composing their own addresses or simply winging it.) Just think about that: there are people currently living who can say "I wrote that speech that our nation's president delivered on such-and-such date." Those presidential speechwriters are probably reading these words that I'm scribbling now, in fact. That's how influential text is.

One can also write a love letter, and either sign it or not.

One can record a dream in a notebook (or at least attempt to do so).

One can write a list of things to buy at the market.

One can write a confession of a crime that one did not commit.

Ah, and here's an idea: Instead of strictly adhering to alphabetical characters, one can use one's pen to draw PICTURES... For example, when partway thru composing for one's country a Declaration of Independence, one can allow one's script to meander into doodles of puppies chasing each other around the legs of Lady Liberty. One can even add speech bubbles, so that the puppies appear to be saying "Yip, yip!" or "Grr!" and there is blood dripping from the gash on Ms. Liberty's ankle, which was probably caused by one of the pups trying to bite the other. 

It has been said that every image is worth a thousand words, but I say that every word is worth infinite images. What attracts me about images is that they're so fixed, so specific; and what attracts me about words is that they're nebulous. That's why I like to see words achieve clarity, and visions that say "Look not only AT me but THRU me."

Now, back to thinking of different things I might write...

I could draw up a contract and mail it to my dentist. It might read: "PROPOSAL FOR A FAIR EXCHANGE. Dear Mister Dentist, greetings from Bryan Ray the Lawyer. Here is my offer; take it or leave it. I propose that if you pull out this tooth of mine which is in pain (see the enclosed hand-drawn illustration, specifically the part that I colored bright red and which has golden bolts of lightning shooting out of it), I Bryan the Lawyer will compensate you for your trouble by pulling out a tooth from your own mouth. A tooth for a tooth: Does this seem fair? You can choose any single tooth in your mouth, and I will pull it out, in return for you pulling mine. Please make an X on the line below to take advantage of this good deal. [Then, at the bottom of the parchment, I'd put a blank line and write beneath it: "Dentist's signature".]

You could also write about baseball. You could describe what happened at the latest game, for those who weren't able to attend it in person. Your article would be a play-by-play report, describing in detail all the suspenseful developments. Maybe you could even include your own opinions about the colors and tailoring of the uniforms, to give the piece flair. The more honest and passionate you are, as a sports-column writer, the more your readers will adore you. So you could tell how, in this latest match between East Berlin and West Berlin, in the all-female league, you felt such a genuine love for BOTH teams that you began praying for a tie outcome: Your fervent wish was that all the players and the coaches from both sides would merge together into one single team, so that all scores and stats could be tossed into hellfire; additionally, the hard white ball should be swapped out and replaced by a lime-green tennis ball. Then, behold: all of these things came to pass.

You could write a menu of exotic foods for a restaurant that you never bother to build. You could leave the menu on the floor of the Nighttime Forest, and some old wanderer could come wandering by and pick it up and decide to try preparing some of the dishes. The "Special of the Day" might be tomato soup. It would taste wonderful and supply one with enough energy to meet an angel on a mountaintop.

You could write down words at random while abandoning syntax; then win the Nobel Prize for predicting Armageddon.

You could write a long, heartfelt letter to an innocent man who was mistakenly jailed (he has, in fact, been sentenced to death). Then, after intercepting and steaming open the envelope to make sure that there are no metal-files or weapons enclosed within it, the prison's warden might slide your letter between two slices of bread, as a practical joke, and hand this "sandwich" to one of the guards; and that fellow might eat your letter without even understanding that he has been tricked. He might really enjoy the flavor of your prose. Seriously, you most likely don't even realize how talented you are. 

You could also compose a history of life on Jupiter, talking about all the various civilizations of intelligent beings that have existed there. You could just make it all up, and even fabricate a ton of footnotes so that the text appears legit and well-researched. By the time Science figures out how to build a rocket-ship that's stylish enough to land on this planet, you yourself will be long dead. But your ghost, which spends its afterlife haunting a library in Connecticut, will be happy to read in the newspaper an article that reports how all your wild imaginings proved factual.

You could write a philosophical treatise about... Hmm, now I can't think of what to choose as your topic — all I know is that it should be extremely pessimistic. That way, you can impress all the women who live in the Global North, and they will invite you into their cottages for further discussion. Once inside, you should disclose that you are only the stenographer of this philosophy, as you received the bulk of its ideas by channeling the spirit of your (still living) friend who is a nonverbal she-camel. This will earn you romantic bonus points, and the northern women will reply "Oh, you have a household pet?" and you can say "Yes, Guadalupe is free to roam at will, but she sticks around and remains close to me, because she likes my company. The moment I approach my writer's desk, to begin a session of philosophical composition, she saunters in and reclines on the extra-large comfy-couch that I keep beside my study."

Let me return to listing more things to write, tho... I'm trying to prevent this from becoming interesting...

You would write down recipes for food. Did I mention this yet? If so, then just write down even more recipes; one can never have enough tasty recipes.

You could write out the directions to the nearest cliff, so that you can go there, next time you take your automobile out for a spin. (While driving, you might continue staring down at the directions that you wrote, instead of keeping your eyes on the road; then, at the last moment, you might glance up and see the cliffside directly before you and therefore slam on the brakes. Then you might carefully shift the gearbox into reverse, and back your car away from the cliffside, until you're far enough off to get a running start: Then slam your boot down on the accelerator and fly off the cliff with UNQUESTIONABLE INTENTION. Finally, explode in a puff of smoke at the bottom of the gorge.)

You could write a note of apology for the bad advice that you gave, if you're an advisor. 

You could write a thank-you note for the apology that you received from your bad advisor, if you are a king.

Speaking of bad advisors, the Apostle Saul wrote at least one letter to a church in Galatia. He also wrote to other churches. I myself could write a letter to the same people, but I doubt they'd receive it; for it's unlikely that any postal service delivers to the place where Saul's Galatians reside at present (if they're even still alive). 

Yes, one could fling one's hand and cast random building-blocks of language onto the page like glitter sprinkled upon wet glue, without caring where one's words land or whether they even make any "sense". Nobody could tell you that you're wrong to do this. Or, rather, anybody could tell you that you're wrong to do this, but you would not need to care. Even if the person who dislikes your abstract composition aims a firearm at your head and mutters: "Revise your manuscript so that it accords with my fancy, or I will blot you from this world." You could simply let them kill you: it doesn't matter. Nothing matters at all.

Either that, or everything matters a great deal. (I say this as a hostage of God.)

I often think of the opening scene of ALICE'S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND by Lewis Carroll, where Alice is sitting on the bank while her sister is reading. Alice glances at the contents of her sister's book a couple times and then notes to herself "what is the use of a book without pictures or conversations?” My own impulse, on reading this, is to enshrine Alice's reaction as the official definition of a "good book". But then I reflect that just because Alice is the starlet of a story doesn't mean that her opinion is the truth. (Only the star of an actual Biblical Gospel is THAT trustworthy. Or, rather, not its star but its SCRIBE — for the two are at odds, as the star eschews authorship.) For all we know, Alice's sister might be far ahead of Alice, on the Road of Reading: perhaps she has stopped somewhere and is waiting for Alice to catch up. Yes, if we could enter the story and view the scene from an angle that would show the front cover of the book, we might learn that Alice's sister is actually reading The Something of the Something Something. [Fill in whatever title you like. At the moment, I can't think of any decent books. — I'm not much of a reader.]

Now I will spend the rest of this entry imagining that you & I keep getting caught sleeping overnight in department stores.

First, the Hat Store caught us. The place's owner flicked on the lights in the morning and said "Whoa, what do we have here!"

Then the Snowmobile Shop caught us. We were in each other's arms, sprawled on one of the machines. But the early-shift employees did not disturb us; instead, two of them walked backward holding a blanket and draped it over our nakedness. We thanked them for this later: for we woke up just before noon, and they explained what they had done to keep us warm and preserve our modesty; so we ended up arranging to meet them at the end of their workday; and we treated them to a feast at the nearby Burger Joint. After finishing our meals, we remained at the table and engaged in conversation, which lasted into the evening. Once the sky was dark and the streets were wet, our new friends left; and you & I fell fast asleep.