I enjoy writing for newspapers because of a desire to hunt for the truth and it is constant practice. It forces me to try and perfect my craft with deadlines.
However, the drawback is routine. Sometimes writing what literally happens regularly and impartially while exercising my fingers and ability to research or dig, subverts my creative half.
My free writing half gets locked in the need to attribute and identify. I was stuck in one of these spells recently. Despite producing countless stories about events and happenings with some descriptive flare, I hadn't been able to just sit and dynamically describe my own musings. Usually, such a spell is shattered by the right song. However, this time it was the pressure of completing a writing assignment for a class I had put off until the last possible second that freed my bruised imaginative ego.
For some reason, instead of worrying about listing sources correctly or checking every word for AP style I just wrote freely until it was time to drop the assignment into the drop box.
It was like flying. I felt giant wings unfurl and flex and then I was soaring through the sky. Words flowed like wingtips through wispy clouds. I basked in the warmth of not caring like a bird floating on the wind on a sunbeam cast from the setting sun. It felt great and I am writing this while the euphoria lasts.
I overthink, pushing my brain in pursuit of Einstein like breakthroughs that will change the world. And the little buddha on my shoulder laughs amused as I flounder in illusion for this to, like suffering rooted in desire, shall pass.
Is this what it sounds like "when doves cry?"
However, the drawback is routine. Sometimes writing what literally happens regularly and impartially while exercising my fingers and ability to research or dig, subverts my creative half.
My free writing half gets locked in the need to attribute and identify. I was stuck in one of these spells recently. Despite producing countless stories about events and happenings with some descriptive flare, I hadn't been able to just sit and dynamically describe my own musings. Usually, such a spell is shattered by the right song. However, this time it was the pressure of completing a writing assignment for a class I had put off until the last possible second that freed my bruised imaginative ego.
For some reason, instead of worrying about listing sources correctly or checking every word for AP style I just wrote freely until it was time to drop the assignment into the drop box.
It was like flying. I felt giant wings unfurl and flex and then I was soaring through the sky. Words flowed like wingtips through wispy clouds. I basked in the warmth of not caring like a bird floating on the wind on a sunbeam cast from the setting sun. It felt great and I am writing this while the euphoria lasts.
I overthink, pushing my brain in pursuit of Einstein like breakthroughs that will change the world. And the little buddha on my shoulder laughs amused as I flounder in illusion for this to, like suffering rooted in desire, shall pass.
Is this what it sounds like "when doves cry?"