by J. S. Bailey
The mind of a writer is a traumatically obsessive one.
It is a role of endless searching—longing for that one word to wash ashore and be written in the sand. Only for it to then become apparent from a closer look that it was not, in fact, that one word.
I tear out my hair, peel away my scalp follicle by follicle, digging for that collection of syllables skulking somewhere below the surface. And when found, a short-lived joy bubbles inside. Until I must find the word which follows.
By the time a sentence has reached its end my head bleeds. But I go on, discovering more words in the sand, allowing the waves to wash away the unsuitable, refusing to watch as they drift back into the sea.
Eventually a paragraph exists.
The chapters pile up as this process is repeated time and again, and my head runs red.
At this point the sand has dried out, soft granules remain but are too fine to carve into and I’m in need of rest and healing.
Soon as I regain creative energy, I drag myself to the beach and feast eyes on my work. It is not how I remember it.
I bring my bucket and add water to the sand, leaving it damp enough to alter while careful not to wash away the heart.
Piece by piece, word by word, I correct my work. Each word having previously been chosen for its own purpose, must all now work in unison. I strengthen some and weaken others to encourage them to speak as one.
Nothing but a few droplets remain in my bucket.
After carefully crafting the sand, laying it flat and carving it using brilliant vocabulary, my role then shifts. I must destroy perfection to leave art among the rubble. I make the sand uneven—as sand should be—by raising mounds and digging ditches until nature regains her shape.
After this beautiful mode of alteration, comes once again, the choosing of words.
Only the most determined minds can see such a process to the end. Those who are successful are rarely satisfied completely with their work, spending an ungodly amount of time rueing the words which failed to play their part.
The tormented life a writer must endure is indeed a traumatically obsessive one.
However…I am obsessed.
J. S. Bailey is obsessed with the power of words. His short fiction has been published in An Aitiuil: Volume II by the Marthello Journal and Madrigal Press, Flash Phantoms, and Down in the Dirt magazine. His travel guide on Dublin was published by CZYK Publishing. He also has publications pending with Horrorsmith, Academy of the Heart and Mind, and The Piker Press.
Add your first comment to this post