Since I had set out to continuously write on this website, it is remarkable to find that only nineteen days have been recorded thus far. And while there are instances when other works stand in place for a given day, I had assumed to be much “older” as it were.
The original purpose of this blog was to give physical evidence of my progression as a writer. Thus far I am unsure what has changed. Is there enough proof towards trends being set? Do I favor a style of writing or repeat my favorite words consistently enough to be noticed?
I have no answer save one; that I have developed an obsession in the thought of writing. Though there are long periods of drought, in which no new content is added, I find myself imagining the words I can write.
They are small moments. Images that I find myself staring with intensity as I pass by. A weed growing out of the crack of the sidewalk, an elderly man pushing a bad with an even elderly looking dog inside, or the smallest glance and smile of someone on the other side of the room. With each new scene, an explosion erupts in my mind, a story barely contained in a single sentence. I feel feverish, sensing the need to put the details of what I am witnessing onto paper. But the moment then dissipates, lost in a steady stream of the present, with me helpless in trying to pause and inspect what I had just experienced.
I wonder if the reason most stories are written in the past is that it allows the author to gain control over time. To slow down or speed up a moment as they please. Perhaps it is satisfying an impossible urge that afflicts all writers; that as the days progress, we see the words all around us.