I take another bite of tuna fish on pumpernickel, and wash it down with sip of iced green tea. I cue episode 2 of Westworld. It’s 8:00 pm, and I’m done working for the evening. I wrap a fluffy robe around me and sit on my bed with my tablet on my lap.
After teaching class, and consulting at the writing center, I came home and worked on my scholarly article. Writing an academic article is like putting a puzzle together, conforming to the expected structure, blending original ideas with supporting research. A restrictive, closed form. My students think I have forgotten the stress of academic composition. But, I haven’t. My word count just got longer.
Now, I sit back and tap out words between scenes on tv. I no loner worry about form. I no longer worry about proving my point. Do I even have a point? Blogging, for me, is just an experiment in which I connect one word to the next, one thought to another. No critique. No peer review. I write as an act of exploration, the most open of forms.
I feel the tension slowly dissolve as I wander through my metadiscourse. My hands shape words like a potter molds clay. I feel them slip between my fingers, spinning on the potter’s wheel. Pulling here, pushing there, my hands morph the clay into a vessel, the words into meaning.
Are you still with me dear reader? Are you committed to our rambling stroll through the word garden? We pluck a bouquet of flowers: adjectives, nouns, verbs. We ad a spray of prepositions for delicacy. What do they smell like to you? Sweet? Subtle? I smell the exotic sandalwood scent of incense. Words flap overhead like Tibetan prayer flags.
Is this how a word feels after you scribble it on a scrap of paper and stick in a book? Hidden words become soft memories waiting to be spoken back to life. I close the tattered book and slip it back onto the shelf. I will save the rest of the words for later.