The Art of Writingness

What a joy it’s been to stumble across and join the weekly writing circle, so ably – and energetically! – led by Jane. When she urges us to write nonsense – junk that you could best use to line the cat’s litter box – my shoulders relax, my entire face breaks into a smile and I feel ready to release onto a page the most grammatically incorrect verbage I could possibly produce.  As Jane once said, we’re allowing our voice to have a dance. When was the last time someone pushed you to the limits of your expression? And how freeing is/was that?!

Always an adventure, last week’s gathering was grounds for yet another collective journey (or dive!) into the unknown. There were deeply emotional stories, others were funny and terribly inventive;  some resonated with me more than others. But I reveled in each of the gems borne of Jane’s prompts.

Without further adieu, and really just for the fun of it, I wanted to share a couple of pieces of my own junk, because surprises emerge best from unplanned attempts at..um.. writing (prompts are italicized):

When my real life begins, will the only life that I known until now fade completely from my memory? Will it fade also from the memories of every person who has been a part of my life-as-it’s-been until now? When my real life begins, will I have a choice of preserving some fragments of the past – not just the ones that I am proud of, or the times I was swathed in love and contentment; but will I have the time and luxury of scanning the reel of my past life-as-practice-run, and gather slices of time, days perhaps, even mere moments, say when I was dead wrong, when I may have terribly hurt a friend without intending to, never taking the opportunity to apologize. When my real life begins, can I see myself off from the launching pad of gross error, missed opportunity, time wasted and failed love? Can I use heartbreak as the fuse to shuttle me into the nanosphere of Life, Part II? And if, by chance, though my rocket be stuffed with remnants of the past, I can lessen that load with every mile I travel, then I will be blessed. Second chances at life should be embraced, especially if you are hurtling through space, blindly tracing a trajectory through the skeletal blueprint of tomorrows.

And this one, from a prompt I offered up to Jane:

What if we held each others’ hands through this writing exercise; what I mean is that if we could write with one hand and leave the other cushioned in the palm of our neighbor’s hand, would we get a transfer of energy, heat and thought? Could we breathe in, through our pores, via our nerve endings, the writingness of others? If we felt a bout of writer’s block creeping in, could we tap that palm, palpate the skin of he or she who holds our hand – which in some ways is also our soul – so that we could tap into the vast expanse of emotions and sensations that filter down through each one of us, a domino effect of writingness?

Voila, my junk. Take it or leave it. Better yet, try dredging up your own junk, ignite your own fire; you may be amazed at what you discover.

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