soon it will be seeing.

the process of writing is a double burden, but the product that appears at the finale is a reward that makes the author feel weightless. although i feel like i am always collecting matters that will shape a larger and hopefully, more substantial text. i worry whether it will ever become more real. i suppose that is the great burden - that leaves you avoiding the moment of beginning, but wanting, if not needing, it most desperately. there is the excitement you experience, once text begins streaming across the page, when thoughts position themselves upon the page and can be seen, and not just heard in imagination. a writer holds his breath for the length of his work and even the times between when it is best to rest.

i begun saturday - and wrote through that one day alone. i despise the situation, but the day to night of class leaves me too exhausted and now the apartment heat leaves me in a state of delirium - by no means the tone i am going for in my work.

life is funny though, and perhaps the artist is more so. i never imagined what i am writing would become so romantic, so involved with the language of the nerves, the mind of the heart. moments and mood fall upon you at certain times and i reason this is that time where i am pulling apart this texture that feels thick around me.

the fascinating truth -at least for me- which i become more involved in, is how those we experience, even if only slightly, and even the places we have escaped to, all become subject to material we can use. and the extremity in which we can indulge within these times - how well we can explicate them - will no doubt determine the writer who uses them as words within his voice. a professor said the other day, that we will grow as an author and become less selfish--less occupied--with framing our personal story and in doing so will become truthful to the lives of our characters. i am insecure that i will always write out the same thematic - with different chapters, but with similar desperation - a meta exploration that exposes my voice, my heart, my memory and no one more.

with the story i have begun, i experience the pressure - as i always will, and as most artists do - to not exclude a shade of thought, the many moods that capture but one action, the multitude of attributes that rest within a moment and of course, the comparisons to draw upon that do not distinguish our differences but spotlight, or maybe even give theory, to our similarities.

i know i am young and new at writing, but i can not find comfort in this situation or excuse any truth that can be found within it. the more i write, am read aloud and hear other contemporaries, the less i feel i am a storyteller. and nor have i ever felt like i was or wanted to be. i remember somewhere in some journal writing that i had no interest listening to stories, exchanging everyday gossip, pushing characters to move and act. i just needed them to feel for me, their fewer actions will be replaced by the movement of their thoughts. i am not writing for the stage or screen, why should it be expected of me?

there are so many beautiful books i own, and everyday i want to search out and find. author's whose words i place on notecards and file but which really need to be framed. i am on two poles of language that situate me with different statements. that of the deconstructionists, where i become abstract, where feelings feel less, and the personal is too preoccupied in being redesigned that the self slips out completely. and then there is the lyrical novel - the borderline between poetry and fiction. where sentences carry a musicality - where the richness of words for setting can be tasted. i am told that i am a brilliant intellect in one, and a lovely sensualist in the other.

i just hope i can be proud of anything that falls out of me. this new work surprises me. my memories and where they take me. the portraits of characters i was suppose to create, but really just helped build myself, and who i have known intimately.

it is fun, i see. to begin, immediately bond with the characters, and then not know how anything will become. i laugh in silence now, wondering how if i ever come to a finish will i think of the real characters that inspired the fiction. will i see them differently--intricately, revealed, depth, designed, decided--blah blah blah.

because again it all comes back to the writer who felt she had to write her mind out, so she crossed time, selected scenes, picked characters with such dissimilarities that scents, sense, sensuality will be the leading factors that make the love feel replete or just something other.

i am excited to re-see memory, share characters that would never have been comfortable sharing and I do-do-do want to come stuck and come to the point where i know i have to feel completely in order to continue writing.

what will any of this become?