Why is writing sometimes easy, and sometimes hard? Why do the words come so easily sometimes, and not without great effort at others?
I’ve read all manner of blog posts, essays, articles, and even the odd book or two about the craft of writing. Nothing has ever explained the rare times when the words flow like a river from your fingers.
I am reminded of my closest friend for many years, who once told me “when you’re down, you’re unbearable - but when you’re happy you shine”. Perhaps that’s it - mood. Perhaps happy thoughts bring eloquence, wit, and charm.
In the movie “Finding Forrester”, the question is posed : “Why is it the words we write for ourselves are so much better than the words we write for others?”
I’m tempted to delve into the Moleskine notebook that nestles in the foot of my backpack for validation. We’ve travelled thousands of miles together, the Moleskine and I. It holds secrets, quiet thoughts, accusations, observations, social commentary, and all manner of personality defacement. There have been times when I could not write fast enough - when the pen struggled to keep up - when my hand hurt, and the handwriting went to hell.
Writing in the notebook is somehow more romantic than bashing keys on a computer keyboard. The effort required to form the letters, to plan each sentence before setting pen to paper requires discipline - a rigour that is lost through the backspace key.
There is of course a catch - the Moleskine sits at the bottom of my bag, and will only ever be seen by me (unless I transcribe excerpts of it’s contents), whereas this blog will be seen by people the world over. It’s content will be stored in search engines for years to come, and I will be accountable to it’s content forever more. My children will be able to find the rubbish I have written, and know their father as he once was - what he thought, what he worried about, what made him laugh, and what he thought of them as they grew, learned, and tested boundaries.