Living in Frames, by meshing the lyrical moments of life with the captured images of experience. This is a reverie, a journey, the fork in the road, and the never-ending story....

Monday, November 4, 2013

the sum and the parts.

I remember saying it unintentionally as an insult about his music, or maybe because at the time I just didn’t know any better: Why do you only write about relationships and the women who have done you wrong?

What else is there to write about? Was his response.

At barely twenty-two (still a kid), what did I know? I wasn’t even certain if I’d ever been in love, let alone experienced real hurt. But I felt strongly that there was more to life than digging up old romantic connections, and I naively voiced my opinion aloud as I secretly tried to pick his brain and figure out who he was singing about in all those songs. I just couldn’t understand how someone could be so hung up in the past, when you could be having new and inspiring experiences each and every day.

Being a writer was also still a romantic pursuit for me. I believed, because many of the greats that came before me suggested in their writings and teachings, that an artist was the summation of all their experiences. I wanted to be a gestalt writer—working on all-encompassing stories that tackled real-life matters and conflicts and could resonate with almost anyone. Because they touched at the very core of human nature.

Yeah, I know, I was an idealist in the making. And my motivations for creating art were probably not so far off from the musician I callously offended.
Ah, youth. You just don’t know, until you know.

So, what changed? I grew up, fell in love, came to understand what romantic love is all about, and then tried to express it in words. There were times I felt like I was really onto something, but on other days I knew I was nowhere close to capturing the raw brutality and beauty of intimacy. And the more I became frustrated with this subject the more I wanted to study it, tear it apart from the inside out, and live in it while keeping it at a distance to observe. In a way, it made me a bit mad. Not the love itself, but the act of writing about love.
For a year now, I’ve been working on a collection of short stories dealing with morality. Last month, I printed the first hard-copy draft to share with someone whose opinion and support has helped me get back to writing about NON-love related topics. I’ve been stimulated with other things: conversations, nature, hope, struggles, religion, and that something different that has yet to come.

Maybe what writing about love and having the experience of love did for me, was show me what else is out there to be appreciated, when you finally feel like a full and complete human being.

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