maybe it’s because someone — many someones — told me there would be a dip productivity in post-tenure and im trying to capture whatever comes out whenever it chooses to do so for fear that it’ll be nothing but crickets and the sound of bad tv in the background (upcoming silent retreat aside)
because a semi-anonymous space to dump out and try out words is definitely less threatening than the alternative of public, over-evaluated writing that has been my reality of late. (besides, no one knows im really a dog pawing away at the keyboard.)
it may be that i have kept just so many thoughts in check for so long for the purposes of focusing and being productive that given the chance to breath, even just a little bit, they rush forth like over-excited cannon balls
perhaps, like suzi and sebald*, i simply can’t help myself.
writing mystifies… i wonder whether other modes of communication have a similar pull (hint: the answer is not no)…
* in the la times obituary of this writer, who came into his writerly identity later in life and died much too soon, the following is noted about sebald feeling compelled to write:
“I found a patch of my own,” Sebald told Reynolds. “It was a kind of therapy, self-therapy. I never thought it would take over, but you write one thing, and then you feel compelled to write another. It’s a kind of compulsive disorder.”
” Writing is quite painful,” he added. “There’s the odd chapter I can do in my sleep, but for the most part, I grind away with dogged persistence.”
i only became familiar with this writer in the past year, but each time i think of his death — and perhaps especially as i continue to live with his words, both in his composed fiction and in his responses during interviews and other dialogues — my throat tightens up and i feel the warm embrace of a strangely generous melancholia.
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